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AT LOVE’S EXTREMES. 



AT LOVE’S EXTREMES 


A 77 

MAURICE THOMPSON 

A .. 

Author of “ A Tallahassee Girl," “His Second Campaign," 
“ Songs of Fair Weather," etc., etc. 


“ / envy not the beast that takes 
His licensein the field of time. 

Unfettered by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes." 

— Tennyson. 



NEW YORK : 

CASSELL & COMPANY Limited 



Copyright 

1885 

By O. M. DUNHAM. 


All Rights Reserved. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter i. mountain dew. 

Chapter ii. milly. 

Chapter iii. mr. hawkins noble. 
Chapter iv. white plays “ seving up” . 
Chapter v. some light talk. 

Chapter vi. at the gate. 

Chapter vii. an old plantation house. 
Chapter viii. with dog and gun. 
Chapter ix. luncheon al fresco. 
Chapter x. milly inquires. 

Chapter xi. dallying.. 

Chapter xii. a bit of love making. 
Chapter xiii. at the ruin. 

Chapter xiv. a whisper in the cabin . 
Chapter xv. a disclosure. 

Chapter xvi. convalescent. 


PAGE. 

I 

• 15 

• 2 5 

• 38 
. 48 
. 64 

• 77 

• 93 
. 1 10 

. 123 

• 134 
. 149 
. 164 
. 180 

. 189 
. 202 


VI 


CON 7 'ENTS. 


Chapter xvii. dreams and plans. . .217 

Chapter xviii. realities. . . . 229 

Chapter xix. whither. .... 250 
Chapter xx. after all. .... 260 


AT LOVE’S EXTREMES. 


CHAPTER I. 


MOUNTAIN DEW 


MAN stood on the jutting shoulder of a mountain 



il. overlooking a long, narrow valley, whose scatter- 
ing houses and irregular farm-plats, seen through the 
clear air of that high region, appeared scarcely a gun- 
shot distant, when in fact they were miles away. It 
was early morning; the sun had barely cleared the 
highest peaks in the east, and the landscape, albeit a 
mid-winter one, was wonderfully rich in colors. On 
the oak trees the leaves still clung in heavy brown, 
green and russet masses ; the hickory forests, though 
leafless, made bits of tender gray along the lower 
valley-slopes, whilst high up toward the mountain 
tops, the billowy wilderness of pines, cedars and chest- 
nut trees added their variegated patch-work that grad- 
ually rose and shaded off into the blue of distance. In 
some places where storms, or the needs of man, 
had removed the oak woods, a dense, frondous mass of 


2 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


young pines had leaped up with a greenness full of a 
soft yellow glow. The sunshine and the wind of the 
South were flowing over this scene, and there were fra- 
grant odors and balsamic pungency in every wave. 

The man, a tall, shapely fellow, was a young English- 
man who had lately come to the iron and coal region 
of Alabama to take charge of extensive manufacturing 
and mining interests belonging to his family. Just at 
present, with a true English faith in the value of out- 
door sports, he was hunting wild turkeys, or, for that 
matter, whatever other wild game might chance to let 
him get within gun-shot of it. He had left his hotel 
at Birmingham with the first hint of dawn, and had 
steadily tramped over hills and mountain spurs and 
through wild ravines and beautiful glades, without 
a sight of fur or feather. Now he stood on this airy 
height, flushed with his healthful exercise, a little 
disappointed and annoyed. But the mountain air of 
the South has in it a tenderly exhilarating influence 
which affects the imagination and lulls one into pleas- 
ant, though often rather vague dreams. No matter if 
Edward Moreton was an intensely practical-minded man 
of affairs, the kind of Englishman who is willing to 
come to America and superintend iron works and coal 
mines, he was, nevertheless, not wholly impervious to 
the poetry — the lulling magnetism of the climate and 
the scene. For a while he leaned on his gun, a long, 
heavy double-barreled piece ; then he took from his 


MO UN TA IN DE IV. 


3 


pocket a cigarette and match, seated himself on an old 
gray stone and began smoking. In the midst of the 
valley below, ran a rivulet, winding through the woods 
with a silvery shimmer, and out across the farms and 
past one little mill, on into a deep gorge of the stony 
hills. 

Moreton had not found his surroundings in Birming- 
ham quite satisfactory, notwithstanding the fact that he 
had fallen in love, after the old time fervid fashion, 
with a fair young Northern girl living there. The little 
mining town, cramped between the hills, full of rough 
folk, raw and new, could not be very attractive to a 
man who, no matter how practical and matter of fact 
in his disposition, had studied art and who still nursed 
the artist’s dreams. As he sat there with his blue-gray 
eyes slowly sweeping the valley, he was not as blithe- 
looking as a model sportsman should be. His dog, a 
small brown spaniel, sat down at his feet and eyed him 
lazily. No sound, save the rustle of the wind in the 
trees and a dull distant tapping of a woodpecker, was 
disturbing the broad silence of the forest. The sky 
was intensely blue. Suddenly a short puff of damp- 
ness came from the southwest, followed by a growl 
of thunder, a thing not usual in winter, even in that 
latitude. Moreton arose and saw a heavy line of black 
cloud overhanging some conical peaks far away on the 
southwestern horizon. 

“ Come Nat,” he said to his dog, “ we must be going 


4 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


back; a nasty squall is coming. We shall get our 
jackets wet.” 

Nat answered with divers canine antics and the two 
turned away from the valley, the man walking with 
long firm strides and the dog trotting perfunctorily at 
his side. Their way led among the flanking spurs and 
foot-hills of the range, now over great fragmentary 
bowlders, now through yawning clefts and down wind- 
ing defiles, sometimes on bare ridges of shale, anon 
under the dark odorous brushes of the pines. The 
cloud came after them, sending in advance its gusts of 
moist, fragrant air. A vast wing reached up to the 
zenith and a few big drops of rain pattered down. A 
morning shower in the mountains comes at race-horse 
speed. The swiftest birds are caught by it. A flock 
of noisy crows went flapping across the valley, striving 
in vain to outstrip the slanting flood that fell with a 
broad, washing roar from that rushing cloud. 

“ We are in for a soaking, Nat,” grumbled Moreton, 
as he plucked up the collar of his shooting jacket ; “ a 
deuced bad outcome for our first day’s shooting in 
America ! ” 

Nat’s tail was down and so were his ears. He rel- 
ished the signs of the weather no more than did his 
stalwart master. A chilliness was creeping into the 
air, foretelling how disagreeable the rain was sure to 
be. The very trees shivered as the sunshine was shut 
off by the overlapping cloud. 


MO UN TAIN DE IV. 


5 


It was just as the storm was about to break that cer- 
tain sharp cries peculiar to the wild turkey reached the 
quick ears of sportsman and dog. The man stopped 
short and cocked his gun, as the spaniel darted away 
to a short distance and then began creeping through 
the low underbrush, as a setter does when about to 
come to a point. In the next instant four large birds 
were flushed, breaking from cover at about forty 
yards, their wings making the woods resound with 
their loud flapping. Almost at the same moment, the 
“ bang — pang ! ” of Moreton’s gun, fired right and left, 
went echoing across the valley and battling amongst 
the hills. A cock and hen were stopped short and 
fell heavily. The dog sprang forward to lead his 
master to the game, and then came a blinding down- 
gush of rain with a roar like that of a cyclone. 

Moreton with great difficulty got the birds, and, 
after tying them together by the feet, slung them 
across his shoulder. This additional load and the 
hindering force of the rain made his further progress 
quite laborious. Nat resumed his drooping, mechani- 
cal jog-trot at his masters side. The young man 
leaned over and almost shut his eyes as he pressed on, 
catching quick breaths as the cold streams trickled 
down his back. His shooting jacket and trowsers 
were meant to be impervious to water, but the chilling 
liquid was dashed by the force of the wind against his 
neck and thence found its way down to his heels. He 


6 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


did not hesitate, under such stress of ill luck, to rush 
boldly against the door of a low, rambling mountain 
cabin and demand admission. His knock on the 
rough planks was heard by the inmates of the place, 
despite the heavy roar of the rain, and the response 
was immediate. 

“ Kem in, kem in,” spoke a rather pleasing voice, 
in the peculiar accent and intonation of the mount- 
aineers of the region, as the door was opened, letting 
the hunter and his dog in, along with a dash of slant- 
ing rain. “ Le’ me take them birds, strenger, an’ ye 
jest git ther’ by the fire. Hit’s purty outdacious rainy 
all of a suddent ; purty near drownd a feller.” The 
speaker was a slender, almost slight, man, near fifty 
years old, flaxen-haired, thin-faced, with a sharp nose 
and a straggling beard, still lighter than his hair. He 
took the brace of birds off Moreton’s shoulder and 
threw them aside on the clean white floor. “I’ll jest 
put yer gun up fur ye,”- he continued, taking the 
weapon and leaning it against the wall in a corner of 
the room. Then he quickly fetched a chair. “ Set 
down an’ mek yerself at home, I’ll punch up the fire, 
hit’s got sorty low; I’ll git some light’ood knots.” 

Moreton found himself in a place whose features at 
once interested him. Glancing around the room he 
saw two low beds, a few plain split-bottomed chairs, an 
old queer “ bureau,” or chest of drawers, with glass 
knobs, some rude shelves with ironstone dishes on 


MO UN TA IN DE W. 


7 


them, a long flint-lock rifle, hanging in buck-horn forks 
over the door, one of which forks also held a coon- 
skin bullet-pouch and curiously carved powder-horn. 
The fire-place before which he sat was broad and deep, 
roughly lined with jagged stones picturesquely black 
with fleecy accumulations of soot from pine smoke ; it 
was crossed by a heavy charred wooden crane and on 
its broad jambs rested a curious collection of cob- 
pipes, clay-pipes, wooden pipes and soft-stone pipes, 
along with sundry ragged twists of brown home-raised 
tobacco. There was a low, wide window on one side 
of the room, and beside it Moreton’s eyes rested for a 
moment on a slim girl’s form in a half-cowering 
position. She was so turned from him that he could 
see no more of her face than a rounded line of one 
cheek. There was a heavy brush of long, bright, yel- 
lowish flaxen hair, a very delicate ear and a glimpse of 
a brown throat and neck. One hand, rather large but 
shapely, lay along her lap, on the scant folds of a 
homespun cotton dress, the skirt of which could not 
quite hide her coarsely-shod feet. There was some- 
thing curiously striking in this crumpled little figure 
that held Moreton’s gaze for a time. Through an 
open door that gave into a smaller room, the intermit- 
tent hum of a spinning-wheel made itself heard, dis- 
tinct from the clash and swash of the storm, and a tall 
angular woman walked back and forth, drawing out 
and reeling up the coarse thread she was twisting. 


8 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


The man had soon fetched wood and pine knots for 
the fire, and presently a liberal flame wavered up to 
the mouth of the great old chimney. He turned to 
Moreton and said : 

“ Lay off yer coat, strenger, an’ git yer shirt dry; 
hit’s outdacious onagreeable fur to hev on a wet 
shirt.” 

Moreton smiled pleasantly. 

“ Thank you, I will,” he said, rising and stripping 
off the stiff jacket. “You are very kind. I am cover- 
ing your floor with water.” 

“ Shaw, that’s nothin’,” replied the man, in a tone of 
gentle contempt ; “ ef ye’d see hit sometimes when I 
come in ye mought talk. Them little puddles haint 
nothin’ ’tall. The Colonel an’ me jest • floods the 
whole house when we gits wet.” 

“Wonder ef John haint a cornin’, Pap?” 

This sudden inquiry came in a sweet, half-shy voice 
from the girl at the window. 

“ She calls him John, I calls him Colonel,” explained 
the man. Then turning to answer the question : 

“ Oh, ther’s no ’countin’ fur him ; he’s as like to 
stay out all day and night es any way ; hit don’t make 
no differ’nce ’bout rain es to him, do it, Milly ?” 

The girl had turned her face toward the man when 
she spoke, but now she averted it again, a little flush 
gathering on the brown cheek. 

“ He don’t mind no weather, strenger, the Colonel 


MOUNTAIN DEW. 


9 


don’t, rain er sunshine hit’s all the same to him, 
hain’t hit, Milly?” continued the host. 

“ I wush he’d come on back home,” exclaimed the 
girl, “ that’s what I wush.” Moreton had turned his 
back to the fire. He was astride of the chair and the 
steam was rising vigorously from his wet garments. 
Out of the corners of his eyes he kept glancing at 
that lithe, plump little figure by the window. He had 
the taste of an artist, and here was a model for brush 
or chisel to imitate. He was a genuine man, too, and 
here was a bit of rare feminine beauty, no matter 
how coarsely clad or how hopelessly uncultured. She 
had the grace of outline common to wild things, and 
there was that half-pathetic, half-glad beam in her face 
that appeals to a man’s love of the innocent and his 
pity of the weak. Her head was small and well-poised 
above plump shoulders, her bust was full, yet girlish, 
giving just a hint of that early ripeness so common 
in southern countries, and her waist and limbs were 
perfect. At rare intervals one sees such a girl among 
the hardy peasants of most mountain regions, but not 
so often in America as elsewhere. 

“Do ye ever smoke a pipe, stranger?” inquired 
the host, offering Moreton a cob pipe and a twist of 
tobacco. 

“ Thank you, yes, I will take some of your tobacco ; 
I have a pipe,” said the young man, drawing from his 
vest pocket a small meerschaum, old and dark as 


IO 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


mahogany. He had heard of the excellence of this 
mountain home-grown tobacco. 

“ Hit air purty good, ef I do say hit myself. Most 
of ’em roun’ here’s glad to git Tom White’s ’backer to 
chaw an’ smoke, hain’t they, Milly?” Mr. White thus 
introduced himself and his tobacco at the same time. 

At this point Mrs. White quit her wheel and came 
into the room. She spoke to Moreton pleasantly, as if 
she had long known him, smiling cordially. 

“ Ef you menfolks don’t care, I’ll jest jine ye for a 
whiff er two,” she said, going to the chimney-jamb and 
selecting a pipe. 

They formed a strange group around that cabin fire. 
Moreton felt the democratic force of the situation and 
enjoyed it to the full. 

“ Hain’t ye goin’ to have a hand in this here gineral 
smoke, Milly?” said Mr. White, chuckling jocosely and 
looking, under comically-drawn eyebrows, at the girl. 

“ Now, Pap, you know I don’t smoke at all,” she 
quickly answered, getting up and leaving the room. 
Her movement was as light and nimble as that of a 
hare. 

“ Course she don’t smoke, ye know,” said White to 
Moreton, confidentially lowering his voice ; “ I wus jest 
a yankin’ at her fur greens ; she knows when I’m a 
greenin’ of her, an’ she gits tiffy at me in a minute. 
She’s es sharp es a darnin’-needle, Milly is.” 

Thomas, ye ortn’t ter plague Milly so much, ye’ll 


MOUNTAIN DEW. 


II 


spile her temper. Milly’s a mighty good gal,” said 
Mrs. White in a tone half entreaty and half command. 
It was easy to see that Mrs. White ruled the cabin. 
After a moment of silence, “She’s oneasy ’bout the 
Colonel, now, but then hit’s no use, he’s all right, rain 
er shine,” responded the man. 

Moreton, whose eyes furtively followed the girl as 
she left the room, saw that the apartment into which 
she passed was neatly carpeted and furnished with well- 
worn easy-chairs, a table and a desk. Between the 
opening and closing of the door he caught sight, also, 
of long shelves of books and some pictures. The room 
appeared quite large and arranged as if for a gentle- 
man’s study. The contrast between its almost elegant 
appointments and the arid blankness of the one in which 
Moreton sat was so pronounced that, despite his patri- 
cian self-control, a wave of surprise passed over his face. 
The quick eyes of the mountaineer saw this. 

“That there air the Colonel’s part of the house,” he 
hastily said, a trace of apology and disclaimer in his 
voice; “hit jest suits him. He’s got a outdacious sight 
o’ lamin’ an’ plenty o’ money. He kin buy whatever 
he wants.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. White, rather sharply, “an’ jest es 
like es not he’s right now a stan’in’ under some tree er 
rock a waitin’ fur the rain to quit an’ a readin’ of a 
book. Seems powerful quare to me.” 

Moreton was almost tempted to ask questions, so 


T2 AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 

quick an interest had been generated by this gossip 
about the Colonel. Certainly this was a strange home 
for a man of wealth and education. Possibly the Colonel 
was some sport-loving gentleman from New Orleans, 
Mobile or Montgomery, who had taken these apart- 
ments in the cabin as a sort of shooting-box, he 
thought, for he had heard much of the peculiarities and 
extravagances of rich Southerners. But his mental dis- 
cussion of this subject was cut short by a sudden move- 
ment on the part of White, who sprang to his feet and 
elevated his hands. 

“ Well, hit’s jest too outdacious, Sarah,” he cried, as 
if utterly chagrined ; “ jest to think, the strenger kem 
in wet an’ soaked an’ haint hed no liquor ! ” 

“’Bout like sech as we’ns to furgit what we’re 
’bout,” responded Mrs. White; “ye’ll find the dim’jon 
under the tother bed behind the sack o’ ’taters.” 

White dived under the bed in question and drew 
forth a large earthen bottle. 

“ Hit air peach liquor,” he said, advancing upon 
Moreton ; “ the best they air in these parts. Ye must 
parding us, strenger, fur we clean furgot hit.” 

Mrs. White fetched a large, heavy tumbler and 
handed it to Moreton. 

“ Le’ me pour fur ye, stranger,” said White, uncorking 
the bottle. “ Ye’ll find ’at hit air liquor wo’th a-drinkin’. 
Hit ain’t pizened with no revenue postage, ye may set 
thet down solid.” 


MO UN TA IN DE W. 


13 


Moreton, with no light inward protest, submitted his 
lips to the proffered glass. His English taste for 
excellent drinks was never more deliciously surprised. 
What began as a formal, carefully guarded sip, crept on 
into a series of slow quaffs, ending in a final hearty 
gulp. White grinned delightedly. 

“ Haint hit good, strenger? Don’t hit hev the out- 
daciousest way o’ gittin’ to the very marrer of a fel- 
ler’s neck, of any liquor ye ever tasted ? Ef hit don’t 
git ther’, none don’t. The Colonel sez hit’s the best 
liquor ’at he ever tasted ! an’ he's traveled, he hes. 
He's been in furren parts, Rome an’ France an’ them 
air places.” 

Moreton was quick to acknowledge that the brandy 
was surpassingly fine. It had the bouquet of old wine, 
the body of cognac and the mellow fire of Scotch whis- 
ky, along with a faint trace of peach kernels. He 
thought of a certain London club in which he would 
like to introduce this Sand Mountain nectar. 

White partook sparingly of the precious beverage, 
and then carefully replaced the bottle in its hiding- 
place under the bed. 

Meantime the heavy throbs of wind and rain shook 
the cabin to its foundation. 

When the mountaineer returned to his chair by the 
fire, Moreton inquired of him where the brandy was 
made. 

“ Oh, I dunno jest wher’ hit air made, nohow. We 


T 4 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


calls hit the mounting jew,” said White, glancing fur- 
tively at his wife. By “jew” he meant dew. The 
peach brandy made in the sly little stills, scattered 
among the mountains from North Carolina to Alabama, 
is sometimes locally called mountain dew, or rather, 
“ mounting jew.” It is not the drink of drunkards. 
In fact the mountaineers, with now and then an excep- 
tion, are remarkably temperate in the matter of tip- 
pling; but the jug of “jew ” is the special implement 
of their hospitality. 


CHAPTER II. 


MILLY. 



HAT was a rain long to be remembered by the 


1 dwellers in the Sand Mountain country. The 
thunder with which the storm had been heralded soon 
ceased, and the masses of black clouds spread them- 
selves wide, softening into a smooth, leaden-colored 
sheet from horizon to horizon, whilst the rain, driven 
by a throbbing wind, trailed in a wavering flood over 
the rugged landscape. Every ravine and rocky gully 
became a torrent of muddy water. The noises of the 
storm united into a wide bellowing that throbbed 
heavily around the house whose friendly shelter More- 
ton was but too glad to retain. 

The inmates of the place were not over-talkative, 
sitting for most of the time listening with rather 
solemn attention to the heavy beating of the wind 
and rain. 

After an hour had passed and Moreton’s clothes had 
dried somewhat, he was glad to accept his host’s invi- 
tation to go into the Colonel’s part of the house. The 
glimpse he had caught of this sumptuous-looking room 
— sumptuous as compared with the rest of the uncouth, 


16 AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 

scantily furnished house — had set him to wondering 
what it could mean. As he passed through the low 
door-way the girl sprang up from a stool in front of an 
easel that stood near the middle of the floor. Her 
face was burning with the flush of one surprised in an 
act of the most furtive nature. Moreton paused, feel- 
ing with quick certainty how deeply he was embar- 
rassing her. She turned her large eyes on him with a 
startled, momentary stare, and letting fall a charcoal 
pencil, fairly ran out of the room, carrying with her 
what appeared to be a small block of drawing paper. 
On the easel was an unfinished but powerful sketch of 
a large pointer dog. The room was littered with evi- 
dences of artistic and literary labor and recreation. 
The walls were lined with books. In the corners 
stood guns, fishing rods and other implements of sport 
by flood and field. On a table was a fine microscope, 
a tiny crucible and a blow-pipe. A pair of slippers sat 
on the broad hearth, and a sober-looking dressing- 
gown lay across a chair. Evidently the Colonel was a 
man who knew how to take his ease in his inn. 

Moreton passed along by the book-shelves, glancing 
at the titles of the books, finding side by side the works 
of Stuart Mill and the poems of Andre Chenier, the 
novels of George Eliot and the rhymes of Jasmin the 
Troubadour, volumes of La Place, Goethe and Newton 
set among the stories of Thomas Hardy and William 
Black, whilst the poems of Longfellow and Tennyson 


MILL y. 


17 


and Keats were shoulder to shoulder with the latest 
fictions of Zola and Daudet. Copies of magazines 
and weekly literary and art journals were scattered 
promiscuously about in the room. 

“ The Colonel he air a outdacious quare man,” said 
White, who had followed Moreton into the room, “ but 
what he don’t know hit ain’t wo’th a knowin’, though 
I can’t jest see what good hit’s a doin’ of him. S’pose 
hit’s fun for ’im, mebbe, to set here a drawin’ of pic- 
ters an’ a writin’ an’ a paintin’ an’ all that air sort o’ 
doin’s. But then ef he wants to, an’ he pays me for 
the use o’ my house, hit’s all proper I s’pect. Then 
he’s all over a gentleman, the Colonel air, a perfect gen- 
tleman, with a heart es big es a fodder-stack.” 

“ Does the Colonel make this his permanent home ? ” 
inquired Moreton, taking up a volume bound in old 
black leather, and glancing at its title page, on a space 
of which was written in a rather small but decidedly 
masculine hand, the name : John Mercer Reynolds. 

“ Fur more’n six years he’s been right here constant, 
’ceptin’ when he’d go off for a while seein’*to ’is busi- 
ness an’ sich. Thet’s ’is name ther’ wher’yer a readin’ 
in the book. I can’t read no writin’, but I know ’at 
hit’s ’is name, though ; Colonel John M. Reynolds, 
haint hit ? ” 

Moreton made no reply; he was looking at the name 
in a musing way, his brows slightly contracted. Pres- 
ently he turned to White and said : 


18 AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 

“ Where is Mr. Reynolds?” 

“ The Colonel he went out a huntin' this mornin’ 
an’ he haint come back yet. He’ll be in ’fore long, a 
drippin’ like a ash-hopper an’ es wet es a swamp, 
answered White. Then, after a moment’s pause he 
looked quizzically at Moreton and added : 

“Ye don’t hev any ’quaintance of the Colonel, hev 
ye?” 

“ I am not sure. The name is that of a friend of 
mine whom I have not seen for years. Is he tall and 
dark with deep gray eyes and — ” 

“Yes, sir, he air that kind of a man, an’ he air fine- 
lookin’ an’ handsome an’ hes ben all over ever’ wher’ 
an’ knows all about most ever’ thing an’ ever’ body. 
Yes, sir, that air Colonel he air a outdacious fine man.” 

“Yes, yes, he is, no doubt,” Moreton responded 
absently, really quite unaware of what he was saying. 
His memory was busy with things of the past. Was it 
possible that he had thus again accidentally stumbled 
upon Reynolds? Of all the men he ever had met he 
liked Reynolds best. The very name had its fascina- 
tion, just as something in the man himself had its mys- 
terious charm, disconnected from any social, moral or 
intellectual attractiveness. 

“Where did Mr. Reynolds come from when he came 
here ? ” he demanded, coming suddenly and wholly back 
to himself and looking at White who had begun to 
move away. 


MILL V. 


19 


“ The Colonel he kem f’m — kem fm — f m — I couldn’t 
say e’zactly wher’ the Colonel kem f’m ; but som’ers in 
furren parts, I’m sartaing of thet.” 

“ Six years ago, I think you told me.” 

“Yes, a leetle the rise of six. The Colonel he kem 
yer in Septem’er.” 

“Sings well, the Colonel, does he? ” 

“ Sing ! dern, but ye orter heer ’im, strenger. He 
ken beat a meth’dis’ nigger all to striffins. He air a 
singer for ter mek yer hair stan’, the Colonel air.” 

“ Plays superbly on the guitar?” 

“ On the git-tar? Yer may say he does, strenger. 
When he plays onto the git-tar, I calls hit a pickin’ 
onto the git ther’, and the Colonel he ken git ther’ with 
the bes’ chunes ’at ever split the wind, dead sartaing.” 

White’s sallow face betrayed, as he finished speaking, 
a perfect faith in the legitimacy of his humor, and 
Moreton felt bound to laugh. 

At this point the girl came shyly to the door and 
said : 

“ Pap, dinner air ready.” 

Moreton could not refrain from looking boldly, even 
searchingly, into that sweet, innocent, half-vacant face. 
He felt an obscure pang enter his breast, as if in some 
way her pathetic, hopeless prettiness accused him. She 
was probably sixteen, and, though rather slight, 
remarkably well-formed and graceful. Her scant, 
coarse drapery served to indicate more than to hide her 


20 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


body’s curves and the outlines of her supple limbs. It 
was her face, however, that had in it the power of 
leaving in Moreton’s memory a haunting, elusive 
impression that would not go out. She did not take a 
seat with her parents and their guest at the table, but 
filled the place of serving maid, passing silently behind 
their chairs, offering the dishes of ill-cooked coarse food 
and anticipating with swift movements the needs of 
each. 

“ Ef the Colonel wus here now,” said White, poising 
a piece of fried bacon between his plate and his mouth, 
“ ye’d never git him to eat this yere kind er victuals. 
Nary time, sir. He’d hev br’iled chicken, er squir’l, 
an’ white bread an’ milk an’ I don’t know what all. 
The Colonel he air high tony dinktom ’bout what he 
chaws, le’ me tell ye. He keeps a lot o’ wine in ’is 
closet, ’an hit air outdacious fine liquor, too.” 

Moreton, whose eyes followed Milly at every fair 
opportunity, saw her lean over White’s chair and heard 
her say in a low, earnest tone : 

“ Hush, Pap, John he wudn’ like hit ef ye said so 
much ’bout his doin’s. I wush ye’d keep still ’bout 
him anyhow.” 

It was little more than a pretense of eating with 
Moreton. The corn bread, collards, sweet potatoes 
and fat fried bacon, which were to be washed down with 
bitter coffee, did not suit his English appetite. Then, 
too, he was so busy with the thought of Reynolds and 


MILL y. 


21 


so troubled by the wistful face of this strangely beau- 
tiful mountain girl, that even the choicest dinner might 
not have tempted him. 

The rain held on steadily until far along in the after- 
noon. Reynolds did not come, and when Moreton saw 
the clouds breaking away in the west, and heard the 
swash of the shower slowly sinking into a desultory 
pattering on the cabin roof, he sat down at the Colonel’s 
desk and wrote a short note as follows : 

“ My dear Reynolds : 

“ If I am not mistaken, I have at last found you 
again. If I am mistaken you will pardon my blunder. If 
I were perfectly sure that you are my old friend whom 
I lost so easily and would give so much to see, I would 
not go from this house without having heard your 
voice and held your hand. I am so sure that you are 
the very Reynolds to whom I owe every thing and 
whose friendship is the warmest spot in my life, that I 
am nearly on the point of staying at a venture ; but 
the rain seems over, and I have a very long walk and 
shall go at once. I am at the Hotel in Birming- 

ham. Won’t you come to see me at once? If you are 
my Reynolds you know how you will be received ; if I 
have blundered and you are not the friend I have 
so long missed, you shall have the humble apolo- 
gies of 


'‘Edward Moreton.” 


22 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


When this hasty epistle was finished, Moreton 
addressed it and placed it on the table. A few 
minutes later the girl came into the room. Moreton 
rose. 

“Will you be kind enough,” he said to her, “to hand 
Colonel Reynolds this letter when he comes home ?” 

She looked sideways at him and blushed scarlet, but 
said nothing and did not move from where she had 
stopped beside the door. A bright strand of her hair 
had fallen forward across her shoulder and breast. 

“ I shall be greatly obliged,” he continued, turning 
the envelope about on the table with his finger. “ You 
will be doing me a great favor. Colonel Reynolds is a 
dear friend of mine.” 

Unconsciously he used a wheedling tone in speaking 
to her, as he would have done in trying to coax a little 
child. 

She moved one hand nervously, and a pallor 
encroached upon the flush in her cheeks. Her sweet, 
strange eyes dilated with some sudden emotion. It may 
have been mere bashfulness and the embarrassment of 
ignorance and timidity. She appeared so helpless, so 
prettily forlorn, so innocent and sweet, and yet she 
seemed so vulgar, uncouth and hopelessly shallow, 
withal. Moreton, despite himself, felt the infection of 
her timidity and shyness and became silent. She stood 
for a time as if wavering between opposing impulses, 
then in a sudden and breathless way she said : 


MILL V. 


23 


“ Does John know you ? Where’d ye ever see John? 
He never told me 'bout ye.” She was still glancing 
sideways at him over her shoulder, and standing with 
one foot resting across the toe of the other, her left 
elbow pressed against the wall. 

Moreton smiled and shook his head. 

“ It was a long way off from here that I saw him. 
Beyond the sea, across many countries. Ask him to 
tell you about Edward Moreton. He will remember a 
great many things that we did. We had many adven- 
tures together. He’s a grand fellow.” 

“What air a grand feller? What d’ye mean by 
that there? ” she slowly asked. 

“ Oh, I mean a great deal, every thing that is worth 
meaning,” said Moreton. Then feeling that he had 
failed to satisfy her, he added in a very gentle tone : 
“ I mean that he is good and that I like him.” 

She smiled, and a sudden pleasure flashed from her 
eyes ; but her face quickly resumed its almost stolid 
repose and the vague trace of helplessness and pathetic 
innocence returned. 

The rain was over and Moreton got ready to go just 
as the sun, now far down the west, swung free of the 
scattering cloud and flamed against a space of intensely 
blue sky above the most distant purple mountain 
peaks. 

White refused to accept any pay for the shelter and 
food given to Moreton, and, carrying his practical 


24 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


mountain generosity still further, he slung the brace of 
turkeys across his shoulder and led the way for more 
than a mile, to put his guest into a path which was the 
shortest route over the mountain to a highway lead- 
ing into Birmingham. The two men shook hands 
at parting on the highest swell of a heavy ridge, whence 
they could see the little city, with its great columns of 
coal-smoke and its shining white houses, lying far below 
amidst the gentle undulations of the valley. A long 
walk yet remained for Moreton, with no companion 
save the little spaniel ; but his thoughts were of such a 
nature that he scarcely noted how rough and tiresome 
was the way. The clouds were now all gone and the 
sky, as night drew on, was filled with stars that, seen 
through the purified air, appeared to flame and waver 
like the flare of sunlight on ice. The temperature had 
fallen several degrees, giving a keen edge to the breeze 
which was now out of the north-west ; but there still 
arose from the pine woods that resinous fragrance 
which is a balm for every wound that occasional inclem- 
encies of the mountain weather may give. The streams 
had subsided as suddenly as they had risen, and all 
nature seemed hastening to regain that tranquil equi- 
librium for which the southern winters are noted. 


CHAPTER III. 


MR. HAWKINS NOBLE. 

M ORETON, the more he thought the matter over, 
grew surer and surer of the fact that he had dis- 
covered Reynolds, his long lost friend. They had been 
art students together in Paris, and had been companions 
in a rather wild eastern ramble during which some 
quite memorable adventures had befallen them. 
Finally they had separated, on account of a mild sort 
of quarrel over a sweetheart, Reynolds quitting the 
field most mysteriously, leaving Moreton free to press 
his suit, which at the last wholly failed. It does not 
matter here what was the extent or color of their dis- 
agreement, but it may be said that there was nothing 
violent or tragic in it. In fact it may all be summed 
up in the sentence : Reynolds disappeared ; and so 
sudden and secret was his going that Moreton lost him 
quite as effectually as if he had died and been buried. 
Such a disappearance has in it an element of tragic 
mystery that burns into one’s memory. Moreton 
really knew little of Reynolds, save that he was an 
American and a Southerner, a fascinating companion, 
and a genial, brave, liberal fellow. If their parting had 
been the ordinary one, such as must come at length to 


2 6 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


any traveling companions, perhaps a few months might 
have sufficed to obliterate all regrets connected with it. 
But the peculiar circumstances under which it had come 
about had served to fasten it with a rather fiery em- 
phasis in Moreton’s memory. He remembered Reynolds 
as a proud, peculiarly sensitive man, given to excess of 
sentiment, an extremist, running to great lengths of self- 
indulgence at times, and at other times a model of 
temperateness that bordered on utter self-denial. A 
man with a violent conscience, prone to brood over 
follies and indulge gloomy regret for sins about which 
most young men would unhesitatingly have made 
broad jokes, but yet a man given to unlimited pleas- 
ures. In person he was of noble proportions, quite a 
typical low-country Southerner, bearing in his high- 
bred face an air of fearlessness and obvious pride touched 
to a degree with something that suggested reckless- 
ness. He was reckless, indeed, now and again, always, 
however, suffering the extremest pangs of repentance 
after each lapse into excesses. 

It had seemed to surprise Reynolds in the last 
degree when he discovered that Moreton had become 
his rival, and surprise had quickly blazed up into furi- 
ous anger. For a time it had appeared as if there must 
be a fight, but before this could happen Reynolds con- 
trolled himself and the reaction came. Moreton 
appeared to be successful, and his rival, in a fit of gloom, 
disappeared from the scene. It is easy to understand 


MR. II A IV A” I MS NOBLE. 


27 


how Moreton would be affected by such a turn of 
affairs, and when, a day or two after the events of the 
preceding chapter, Reynolds appeared at the hotel in 
Birmingham, the meeting was, of course, a very cordial 
one ; for Moreton was in no mood to allow his friend any 
room to doubt his sincerity. He had not prospered with 
his suit after Reynolds’ departure. Somehow he could 
not press it with that ardor which kept his heart on 
fire so long as a rival was in view. It may have been 
that the mystery of Reynolds’ flight cast a damper on 
the feelings of the young lady as well as over his own 
spirit. It is even possible that in truth she preferred 
the impulsive, magnetic Southerner to the rather mat- 
ter-of-fact Englishman. At all events, Moreton’s woo- 
ing had languished with the ending of the rivalry, the 
young lady showing a decided willingness to have done 
with the affair on the shortest possible notice. 

Such things may appear to conclude very easily and 
naturally, to the best satisfaction of those concerned ; 
but usually a sting remains with one or more of the 
actors that time is slow to remove. Moreton had felt 
this sting from two sources. He had lost his friend, he 
had lost his sweetheart. His friendship had been deep 
and true, his passion for the girl had been strong, no mat- 
ter if not rooted deeper than his fancy. At one point 
conscience griped Moreton with bitter force : he had 
been ungrateful to Reynolds, who had not hesitated 
to risk his life for him in the most desperate exigency 


28 


AT LO VE 'S EXTREMES. 


of his quite eventful career. And now Reynolds had 
added self-sacrifice to heroism. 

So that it will be readily understood how Moreton 
easily fell into a state of mind that rendered him rest- 
less and self-accusing. His great wish that he might 
one day find his friend again, and in some way make 
reparation for the injury done him, was tinged with 
such sentimentality as the situation would naturally 
generate in a mind, which though quite practical and 
well-balanced, was somewhat given to visionary fancies. 

They sat down to a good dinner, and, with due appre- 
ciation of its qualities, paused between its courses to 
let their conversation lightly circle around the point of 
their past trouble, without coming quite to it. Rey- 
nolds knew that Moreton was still a bachelor, he had 
caught this much from his friend’s manner and talk. It 
flashed through his mind that, after all, he had, perhaps, 
done himself great wrong and Moreton no good by 
acting up to a standard of duty recognized by few men. 
But it was too late to consider the matter now. It was 
all over and the dead past must bury its dead. Besides, 
had he not long ago dashed aside the poor bau- 
ble he had once called love! The subject could not, 
would not be avoided, nevertheless, and when it had 
been reached and fully talked over, both felt relieved. 

“ She is married,” said Moreton, “and is living in 
Florence. Her husband is Count somebody and she 
is an invalid, so I have heard.” 


MR. HA IV HI /VS NOBLE. 


29 


“I give you my word, Moreton,” responded Rey- 
nolds, after a moment’s silence, “that I am sincerely 
glad she is married, and quite sorry that she has lost 
her superb health. Suppose we dismiss her forever 
from our minds and our lives.” 

“ Done ! ” cried Moreton almost jocularly, extending 
his hand. “ I have been deuced near proposing that 
for the last half hour. It takes a load off my breast 
and a cloud off my mind. Here’s to a clear future, old 
fellow ! ” 

He filled their glasses and they drank in a genial if 
not a jovial mood. It was a light way in which to dis- 
pose of so weighty a matter as this had once been con- 
sidered by them ; but then it is the tricksy summer 
breath that tranquilizes the sea after the tropic storm. 
They were both glad to unburden themselves of certain 
troublesome doubts as to the genuineness of the pas- 
sion each had professed. This done, that episode in 
their lives seemed to remove itself to a vast distance in 
the dim past, so they fancied, and they dismissed it as 
a departed illusion of their youth. Moreton looked at 
his friend with more than the old admiration. Indeed 
Reynolds was a man of superb physique and his face 
was one to win men and charm women. With all his 
health and strength and what might be called weather- 
stain, there was in his dark gray eyes and in his low, 
rich voice, a suggestion of that nonchalance and indo- 
lence which have always been characteristic of the 


3 ° 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES . 


highest type of Southerners. Nearly six feet in stature, 
square shouldered, slender, compact, every inch an 
athlete, he gave one an idea of strength, both physical 
and mental, which needed to be roused into action. 

“ I think it deuced strange, don’t you know, that I 
should have stumbled into your den here in the mount- 
ains,” said Moreton. “ It is like romance. They put 
such things in novels.” 

“ It was a clever turn of luck,” lightly responded 
Reynolds, “or, perhaps I should say fate. No doubt 
it is ordered that you and I shall yet work out together 
some subtle decree of Providence. After all, incidents 
and events do not come of haphazard.” 

“ I never philosophize, you know,” said Moreton. 
“ I am never expecting any thing save the very thing I 
am looking and striving for. I was turkey hunting 
when I found your outlandish cabin. What the deuce 
are you doing over there ?” 

“ That is a hard question. I have spent some 
delightfully quiet, uneventful years in that house. I 
find good shooting at times, the air is pure and sweet, 
the water is excellent, the retirement is perfect.” 
Reynolds paused for a time and then continued : “ Oh 
well, I had grown tired of wandering and rather dis- 
gusted with the world in general and I fancied I should 
enjoy being a hermit fora while. I tried it and found 
it charming.” 

Moreton thought he detected evidence in his friend’s 


MR. HA WHINS NOBLE . 


3 1 

manner of a reserve of some stronger reasons for thus 
hiding himself away from the world ; but he took the 
explanation without further question. 

“ That’s a pretty lass of White’s,” Moreton said, 
after the conversation had rambled over such parts of 
Reynolds’ life for the past few years as he cared to lay 
bare. “ Her sweet, solemn, smiling, troubled face has 
haunted me ever since I saw her.” 

Reynolds laughed. 

“Don’t make too much fun of .the poor little thing,” 
he said, half-seriously, half lightly. “ Hers is a vacant 
lot. She is as scentless and colorless as she is cramped 
and undeveloped. I can’t imagine what she was made 
for.” 

“ But what a form and what a haunting, hungry, 
sweet face she has ! ” 

Reynolds looked with a sudden surprise into More- 
ton’s eyes, his own dilating. Presently he laughed 
again. 

“ I do believe you are in earnest,” he exclaimed, in a 
tone at once deprecatory and querulous, “ for you 
couldn’t have the heart, even at this distance, to ridi- 
cule the unfortunate little creature. In this region the 
poor whites are all deplorably ignorant and queer ; but 
she — she is a pathetic cipher, poor thing.” 

“ Physically she is perfect,” insisted Moreton. “ Can 
it be possible that you, a poet and artist, have all these 
years overlooked, ignored, waived aside such a model ? 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


3 * 

I tell you, Reynolds, she’s a genuine wood nymph, don’t 
you know, a dryad whom the satyrs have scared out of 
her wits. I never saw such eyes, such lips and ” 

“Oh come now,” said Reynolds, “ I am not goingto 
listen to such nonsense. Besides, it strikes me as next 
to brutal to think of discussing the charms of an arid, 

dull, ugly little cracker girl well no, not a cracker, 

either, a Sandlapper is the local phrase. The fact that 
such girls exist and must become women and be moth- 
ers of like beings, is to me a subject that it is a virtue 
to shun. On such a theme seriousness is disheartening, 
levity is diabolical.” 

“ Every thing au strieux, as of old ! ” exclaimed 
Moreton, “ you bewildering old philanthropist ! I am 
too happy to quarrel with you now. Wait till the 
newness of having discovered your hiding place has 
somewhat rubbed off and I’ll give you punch for punch 
with a will. But I do say, in all candor, that I never 
was so struck with any bit of wild beauty as I was with 
that queer, solemn-eyed girl of White’s. She might 

make any painter’s fortune as a Daphne or ” 

Reynolds interrupted him : 

“ It is only once in a century or two,” he said, “ that 
the world’s intermittent sentiment will permit a Millet 
or a Burns to cast the glamor of genius over the stolid 
ugliness and the immitigable emptiness of peasant life. 
As for me, I have no sympathy with it from the stand- 
point of art. There is no artistic alchemy that can 


mr. is a warns noble. 33 

make a sow’s ear fine or beautiful. Those who under- 
take to idealize ignorance, stupidity and coarseness are 
worse than such realists as Zola, because they willfully 
deceive those whom they succeed in interesting.” 

“ Go on, wade out, you know I can’t follow you,” 
exclaimed Moreton. “ I love the shallow places, the soft 
sweet edges of all sorts of streams ; but I’ll bet five to 
one on you for touching bottom at all points and with- 
out weights ! ” 

Reynolds laughed and waved aside the wine his 
friend offered. 

At this moment a portly gentleman, wearing a 
bland smile between his iron-gray mutton-chop whisk- 
ers, and a vast gold seal below his vest, approached 
Moreton from another part of the large dining room. 
This was Mr. Hawkins Noble, a person of import- 
ance in Birmingham, a banker in fact, whose money 
and financial sagacity had given to that prosperous 
little city the larger part of its vim and activity. It 
was to be seen at a glance that he was what some one 
has aptly and inelegantly phrased as a “ big fish in a 
little puddle.” He was a New Yorker, and his connec- 
tion with a great banking house in the metropolis had 
followed him to Birmingham with the effect of a sepa- 
rate atmosphere circulating close about his stout figure. 
There was in his movements a celerity quite out of 
keeping with his heavy limbs and rotund body, and his 
small blue eyes had a twinkle which was a compromise 


34 


AT LOVE ’ S EXTREMES. 


between the glint of ice and the genial reflection from 
a June sky. He rubbed his hands together as he came 
near the table. 

“ Hello, Moreton,” he exclaimed, with the intonation 
of one speaking at a telephone, “ pardon me for inter- 
rupting you, but I have a matter of importance. Oh, 
keep your seat,” he hastily added, as Moreton made a 
movement to rise, “it’s nothing in the slightest private, 
only an urgent invitation for you to join me in a most 
delightful bit of field sport. General DeKay, who 
owns a grand plantation and quail preserve below here, 
has sent me word to collect a party of gentlemen and 
bring them next week for a few days’ shooting. How 
does that strike you?” 

“ It strikes me deuced hard,” answered Moreton. 
“ Don’t you know I never did refuse a thing like that, 
never.” 

Mr. Noble laughed. He looked like a man who 
thoroughly enjoyed laughing for the sake of the gen- 
eral shaking up it gave him. Reynolds could not help 
wondering how this rather over-corpulent old gentle- 
man could ever manage to get much comfort out of 
active field sports. 

“ It’s bound to be a most delightful affair,” contin- 
ued Mr. Noble. “The General has some fine dogs, I 
shall take mine, you yours: now where can I find one 
or two more good fellows who are up to such music? ” 

Moreton rose. 


MR. HA WKMS NOBLE. 


35 


“Allow me, Mr. Noble, to present my friend, Col- 
onel Reynolds, who is a most enthusiastic sportsman 
and who has a choice kennel/' 

The banker reached for Reynolds' hand with a read- 
iness and swiftness which, though incomparable, had no 
appearance of undue haste. It -was merely indicative 
of a nimbleness and a promptness for which in all his 
affairs Mr. Noble was noted. His mind and body 
acted together on the instant and on the slightest call. 

“ An enthusiastic sportsman," he said, “ is a man after 
my own heart-pattern. I am glad of your acquaint- 
ance, Colonel Reynolds. May I book you and your 
choicest dogs for the shooting ? Don’t say no, for we 
shall have a grand time of it." 

“ Why, I thank you, indeed, sir, but I can hardly say 
whether ” 

“ Come, now, Reynolds," interposed Moreton, “ I 
can’t go without you, you know, and you mustn’t 
refuse. I fancy I can see the dogs down to a point 
now and the birds whirring up from the cover. It 
makes my blood tingle to think of it ! ’’ 

“Allow me also to insist," added Mr. Noble with a 
nimble bow and genial smile. “ I can vouch for the 
sport, as also for General DeKay’s cordial hospitality. 
He has a large preserve, which he has been at great 
pains to stock, and he insists upon my bringing a little 
army down to shoot with him over his grounds." 

Reynolds saw no way out of it ; in fact he quickly 


3 ^ 


a T Love's extremes. 


felt the fascination of the proposed sport taking hold 
of him. He had been shut up in the mountains for so 
long that the thought of a few days with jovial com- 
panions in the open fields of the low country was like 
a fragrant breath from the past. 

“It is very kind of you, Mr. Noble,” he at length 
said, “ and if I can, in your opinion, add any thing to 
the success of your very attractive plan, I ought not to 
refuse, especially as I am hungry for a genuine old- 
fashioned day with the quails.” 

“ Good ! ” exclaimed the banker, again darting his 
soft white hand towards Reynolds, “ I am delighted. 
I am off now on some pressing business ; shall be glad 
to give you and Mr. Moreton further details of our 
project in due time. Shall hope to have you both at 
my house to dine before we are off for General De- 
Kay’s.” 

He bowed with amazing suppleness and walked 
swiftly from the room. He left behind him, so to 
speak, lingering in the air, a suggestion of irrepressible 
alertness, outrightness and vim. 

“There’s an old boy for you,” said Moreton, resuming 
his seat at the table and motioning Reynolds to do 
likewise. “ I have never seen another at all like him. 
Make a friend of him, and there’s no end to the good 
he will do you. There’s not a doubt that he left urgent 
business to come here and get me into his party. I’m 
delighted that you were here, don’t you know, for we’ll 


MR. Ma WICINS NOBLE. 


37 


have a rare lark. General DeKay is one of your fine 
old-time Southern planters, I’m told, whose hospitality 
is as broad as his fields.” 

“ I’m a fool for consenting to join you,” Reynolds 
bluntly exclaimed, “ but I am committed to the folly 
and must make the most of it.” 

“ Since when have you come to consider a day or so 
behind the dogs in good quail cover a folly?” said 
Moreton, with a ring of good-humored resentment in 
his voice. 

“You misconstrue me,” replied Reynolds, “ I shrink 
from the other feature of the affair. I am out of soci- 
ety for good and all. I fear there will be more women 
than dogs and quail.” 

Moreton laughed as a vision of Mr. Noble's 
charming daughter arose in his mind. She at least 
would be one of the party. 


CHAPTER IV. 


WHITE PLAYS “ SEVING UP.” 

R EYNOLDS spent the next few days with More- 
ton, and, before he was fully aware of it, he had 
accepted an invitation to dine at Mr. Noble’s house, 
where he would meet “ two or three charming friends,” 
as the banker had declared, “ without the least formality 
in the world.” 

The weather had taken a delightful change, the wind 
shifting to the south and bringing from the Gulf of 
Mexico, over the vast extent of pine woods, a summer 
balminess and pungency. The sky, without a cloud, 
blue and dreamy bent above the gray-green hills with 
a Sabbath purity that made every aspect of the land- 
scape surrounding the little city one of sweet guardian- 
ship and secure repose, quite at variance with certain 
social conditions which rendered a considerable portion 
of the city’s populace at times turbulent and danger- 
ous. Many miners and operatives in the vast iron 
works had fallen into the habit of coming together, at 
such hours as they were unemployed, in the gaudily 
tinseled liquor saloons and gambling dens with which 
certain streets were liberally supplied. Here they 


WHITE PLAYS “ SPYING UP” 39 

would meet the quiet-mannered but impetuous and 
bellicose mountaineers, with whom they quarreled and 
fought, sometimes with fatal results. 

On an evening a day or two prior to the time set for 
the dinner at Mr. Noble’s, Moreton had a little adven- 
ture. It chanced that some business with a foreman 
of one of his iron establishments had kept him until 
some time after dark in the office of the latter. In going 
back to his hotel he took a short route which led him 
through one of the worst streets in the city. Passing 
by the brilliantly lighted dens he could hear the clink 
of glasses and the boisterous voices of the drinkers and 
hangers-on. Once or twice he was forced to leave the 
side-walk in order to avoid groups of wrangling fellows 
who appeared on the point of going into a free-for-all 
fight. It was while making his way around one of these 
clumps of would-be rioters that a voice of peculiarly 
familiar accent reached his ear. It was a high tenor, 
drawling as follows : 

“ Hit air my bottom erpinion ’at I ken whirp out the 
last dad-burned one uf ye, an’ ’en not dull the p’int uf 
this air ole frog-sticker nuther.” 

“ Well, why don’t ye do it ? Talk’s talk, but doin’ it 
is another thing intirely,” retorted a heavier voice with 
just a trace of Irish in it. 

“ Hit ain’t fur me to go to cuttin’ uf ye, ef ye keeps 
off n me ; but I’ll jest be b’iled up an’ chawed over ef 
I don’t let yer back bone out in front uf ye, ef ye 


40 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


starts onto me. An’ now ye’ve hearn me,” was the ten- 
or’s quick response. 

Moreton stopped short and glanced sharply into the 
midst of the group. There was White with a long 
knife in one hand and a heavy stone in the other, his 
wizened face and sunken eyes full of defiance and his 
gaunt frame rigid but ready for desperate action. 

“ Kem on, ye sneakin’ keerd-shu filers, an’ I’ll jest cut 
ye inter striffins,” he continued; “ this here knife hit air 
a eetchin’ fur yer livers an’ lights, hit air ! ” 

Just then a pistol gleamed in the hand of the man 
nearest Moreton, and the clear, keen click of the lock 
was sharply audible. It was a slender, but very danger- 
ous sound. 

“ Make shore fire with yer shootin-iron,” White added 
quickly, his voice rising into a thin falsetto, “ fur ef ye 
don’t hit air good-by ter you, hit air ! ” As he spoke 
he prepared to rush forward. 

On the instant there would have been deadly work, 
had not Moreton interfered. 

“ Here ! what does this mean ? ” he exclaimed in a 
loud, authoritative way, stepping boldly into the midst 
of the men. 

His commanding figure, cool bearing and patrician 
dress wrought an effect of which the sturdiest police- 
man might well have been proud. “ Come with me, 
Mr. White,” he continued, “and you fellows had bet- 
ter get to your homes in quick time.” 


WHITE PLAYS “SEEING UP.” 41 

He did not pause or hesitate, but took White by the 
arm with a strong grip and led him away. No doubt 
the very suddenness and boldness of Moreton’s action 
had much to do with the success of his endeavor to 
befriend White, but it is quite probable that the respect 
for superior manners, dress and personal appearance, 
which underlies the gross democracy of the mob, did 
more. White himself would have resented, with all a 
mountaineer’s well-fostered stubbornness, any man’s 
interference with his luxury of a fight, had that man 
been, though his best friend, one of his own or a simi- 
lar class. But he promptly recognized Moreton as both 
his friend and superior and so allowed himself to be 
hurried away, the young man’s grip on his arm remind- 
ing him of a physical force fully proportioned to More- 
ton’s rather massive stature. They soon reached a 
street where no further danger need be feared, and here 
Moreton, releasing White’s arm, said : 

“ What sort of a beastly trouble is this you have 
been getting into ? What was all that quarrel about ? ” 

“ Pa’cel o’ them air dad burned gam’lers a rowin’ wi’ 
me,” replied White, rather doggedly, closing his knife 
and putting it into his pocket. 

“ Fleeced you, I suppose ; won all your money. Bet- 
ter let them alone, they’ll always beat you,” said More- 
ton, his voice very naturally taking on an advisory and 
cautionary ring. 

“ Yer calc’late ruther short, jest ther’, Mr. Moreting 


42 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES . 


(b’lieve thet air’s yer name), fur I hev four dollars uf 
them same fellers’ good money inter my jeens right 
now,” White answered, with a chuckle of profound sat- 
isfaction. “ W’en ye serpose ’at any uf them air gam’- 
lers ken beat me a playin’ uf seving up, w’y then ye air 
a foolin’ yerself outdacious. Es fur them tother games, 
I don’t know much ’bout ’em, but seving up hit air my 
game, jest to a dot, an’ I do s’prise some uf ’em out- 
dacious a playin’ uf that air small game.” 

‘‘Are you going out to your home to-night?” 
inquired Moreton. 

“Yes, an’ I s’pect ’at them air weemin ’ll be outda- 
cious oneasy ’bout me, too, fur I promersed ’em ’at I’d 
be back by dinner time o’ day, when I left ’em this 
mornin’,” said White, rather dolefully. 

After a moment of silence, he added in a hesitating 
way: 

“Hev ye seen any thing uf the Colonel fur the last 
day er two? We’ve been kinder sorty oneasy ’bout 
him, too. Milly she say ’at she most knows ’at he air 
gone fur good an’ ’at he ain’t a cornin’ back no more. 
But then I think he air.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Reynolds is here with me, don’t you know, 
at my hotel. He’s all right,” said Moreton. “I hope 
your wife and daughter are well. Please give them my 
regards. They were so kind to me that day I staid in 
your house.” 

“Them’s outdacious good weemin o’ mine, Mr. 


WHITE FLA YS 11 SEVING UP. 


43 


Moreting, ’specially Milly, she air a gal ’at’s all wool an’ 
a yard wide, to a dead sartinty, she air,” was the reply. 

Moreton was not well enough versed in the mount- 
ain lingo to catch the full force of White’s realistic 
comparison, but he understood that it was meant to 
express admiration and affection of a very touching 
sort, and immediately there arose in his mind a vision 
of Milly, as she had stood by the door that day, with 
one foot on the other and her solemnly innocent face 
half averted. 

The two men walked on together to a point where 
they must separate if White went home. 

“ I hev ter go down this here street ef I want er git 
ter my lay-out,” said the mountaineer, stopping. “ I 
er much erbleeged to ye fur what ye’ve done.” 

Prompted by some impulse quite foreign to his En- 
glish nature, Moreton held out his hand and said: 

“ Don’t forget to give my kindest regards to your 
wife and daughter.” 

“ Sarting, sarting,” exclaimed White, “ I’ll do thet 
air.” He took Moreton’s hand with a hearty grasp, 
but stood as if faltering and hesitating. “ Hit air kinder 
foolish, but I wanter ask ye ter see ef ye can’t git the 
Colonel to kem home poorty soon. Sorter seems like 
things don’t june roun’ jest right ef he ain’t ther’.” 
Somewhere between his words there was a half-ex- 
pressed meaning that seemed to reach and yet bafffe 
and elude Moreton’s understanding. “Ye needn’ mind 


44 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


er sayin’ ’at ther’s trouble ’bout ’im er nothin’,” con- 
tinued White, “ but jest kinder git ’im ter kem home 
like. Milly she hain’t stout, no how.” There was a 
tender tremor in his voice as he spoke the concluding 
words. 

Moreton assured him that Reynolds would come 
home within a few days, and they parted. 

White had been drinking some, but not enough to 
intoxicate him beyond a certain loosening of the tongue 
and a breaking of that crust of half-comical reserve 
which usually covers the Sand Mountain man. What 
he had said had affected Moreton peculiarly. As he 
slowly walked to the hotel “ Milly she hain’t stout, no 
how,” kept ringing in the young man’s mind, as some 
verse of a foolish song might have done, with an appeal- 
ing, shadowy sort of sadness in it. He was far from 
being sentimental, he had never taken any interest in 
people socially much lower than himself, he had even 
been suspected of mild brutality in his feelings towards 
women of the lower classes, not because the brutality 
did really exist, but on account of his utter lack of 
sympathy with ignorance and ugliness ; and now he was 
frankly acknowledging to himself that Milly White had 
touched a very sensitive chord in his nature. In some 
mysterious way he was actually sympathizing with her, 
as if in an elusive and nameless trouble. The feeling 
was not a deep or pervading one : it was, indeed, very 
slight, a mere breath, so to speak, barely rippling the 


WHITE PL A VS “ SEVING UP." 


45 


surface of his consciousness, but it was so new and unique 
that it made itself distinctly and immediately sep- 
arable in quality from all his past experiences. If the 
question had been put to him : Why do you think of 
Milly White — what is the basis of your interest in her? 
He would have answered : I have no interest in her — 
I think of her simply because her strangely sweet and 
yearning face stays in my memory and will not be cast 
out : there was an appeal in her eyes so mysteriously 
affecting. 

White went afoot over the hills to his home, follow- 
ing the meanderings of a narrow, rugged road. He 
was not happy, though he sang nasal snatches of camp- 
meeting or revival songs as he trudged along. He had 
a sense of the unworthiness of his day’s occupation that 
the jingle of the four dollars in his pocket could not 
neutralize. When he reached the rude gate in front 
of his cabin he encountered Milly. She was leaning 
against one of the low posts, her head bare and her 
face showing over-pale in the star-light. 

“ Hello, Milly ! ” he gently exclaimed. “ Hain’t ye 
gone ter bed yet ?” 

She unlatched the gate for him without speaking. 
He passed through and took her by the arm. 

“ He air down yer in town, Milly, down yer wi’ the 
man ’at stopped in outen the rain thet air day,” he 
almost whispered. “ He air all right ; he air cornin’ 
home to-morrer er nex’ day.” 


4 6 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


“ I wush he would come,” she murmured, and fol- 
lowed her father into the cabin. 

Meantime Moreton went to his hotel, where he met 
Reynolds, to whom he gave the details of his street 
adventure. 

Reynolds face darkened a little. 

“ I wish I could have seen White,” he said, in atone 
that hinted of vexation. “ I suspect that he has taken 
advantage of my absence by going on a spree. Are 
you sure he went directly home ? ” 

“ He said he was going, he went in that direction,” 
Moreton answered. “ He was inquiring about you, 
and I told him you were in my care and quite 
safe.” 

Reynolds laughed. 

“ Did he say that his weemin , as he calls them, were 
uneasy about me ? ” 

“ Something of the sort, I believe, but I gave him 
satisfactory assurance. He’ll report you all right.” 

Reynolds laughed again, a laugh that left Moreton 
in some sort of doubt. It was a laugh that seemed to 
be tinged with contempt, or bitterness, or some other 
element quite foreign to any amused or pleasant state 
of mind. 

“ He told me in all seriousness,” Moreton deliber- 
ately but lightly added, “that his daughter believed 
you would never come back.” 

“Yes,” said Reynolds, “she always imagines some 


WHITE PLAYS "SPYING UP: 


47 


such thing when I am away. She’s a queer little sim- 
pleton, but I owe a good deal to her and her mother. 
On that account I overlook a great many little annoy- 
ances they cause me.” 

They went in to supper and the conversation turned 
to a discussion of the preparations for General DeKay’s 
shooting party. But all the time Moreton’s mind kept 
returning to the mystery which he now felt was hover- 
ing about his friend’s life, a mystery he dared not 
attempt to solve. It was plain to him that Reynolds 
had a secret which this lonely life in the mountains was 
intended to hide from the world. It is not difficult to 
discover that one’s friend is not opening his whole heart 
to one, when such is the fact. The reserve of some 
heavy sorrow, or regret, or remorse may be carefully 
concealed, but its very concealment is disclosed by the 
sealed chamber whose door would, we know, be flung 
wide open, but for the skeleton within. A slight eva- 
sion, now and then, of certain careless questions, little 
hints inadvertently let fall in moments of apparent 
abstraction, certain abrupt changes of the drift of his 
talk when the subject was his own experiences, gave 
to Reynolds’ conversation a quality which, to a nature 
like Moreton’s, was as tantalizing as it was suggestive 
of some hidden trouble. 


CHAPTER V. 


SOME LIGHT TALK. 

M R. NOBLE’S house in Birmingham was one of 
our ugly brick-red American cottages, with 
many sharp points to its roof, many slender chimneys, 
a profusion of bay windows and plate glass, and an air 
of band-box newness, suggestive of fresh paint and 
scarcely dry plastering. It stood on a slight knoll 
overlooking a quiet part of the little city, and com- 
manding a view of the mountains in every direction, 
as well as of the broken picturesque valley. Its ample 
lawn, shaded by a few native trees, had been set with 
grass, as if in defiance of Southern custom, and the 
broad walks were not flanked with the conventional 
parallel rows of shrubs and flowers so dear to the 
heart of the old-time Southerner. 

As Moreton and Reynolds passed through the low 
iron gate in front of this house, on the evening of Mr. 
Noble’s dinner, they paused just inside the inclosure, 
and turned about to take a view of the surrounding 
landscape. The horizon in every direction was broken 
by irregular lines of blue hills and mountains, the 
higher peaks sharply defined against a soft crepuscular 


SOME LIGHT TALK. 


49 


sky, whilst the lower ones, seen through the thin gray 
smoke of the valley, were scarcely distinguishable 
from the fragmentary clouds floating lazily in the 
furthest distance. A gentle breeze, running north- 
ward, with just an audible ripple, had in it, along with 
its mountain freshness and purity, a dreamy, languor- 
breeding influence, suggestive of those palm-studded 
islands and warm seas a little further south. Overhead 
the sky was as blue and soft as that of Lombardy, 
and set with fervid, flaring stars. 

“This strikes me as very near the ideal climate, 
don’t you know, a golden mean between the indolent, 
dreamy South and the restless, over-realistic North,” 
said Moreton, taking in a deep draught of the sweet, 
stimulating air. 

“ The air is pure and wholesome,” said Reynolds, 
“ but the scenery is hopelessly monotonous and unin- 
spiring. Six years of it will dry your enthusiasm 
down to the impalpable dust of dreams. I fear I have 
had too much of it.” 

“ No doubt you have,” Moreton bluntly responded, 
“ considering your way of taking it, crooning over 
there in that remote cabin, aloof from every genuine 
human influence, morbidly browsing the weeds of your 
own conscience.” His tone was light and chaffing, but 
Reynolds, as if cut by some hidden meaning of the 
words, started a little, then, catching his friend’s 
humor, said : 


5 ° 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


“ Well, let’s go into this palace of pleasure and per- 
haps I may there get my conscience purified in the 
light of — ” 

“ The light of her eyes 
And the dew of her lips, 

Where the moth never flies 
And the bee never sips,” — 

Moreton hummed, taking his friend’s arm and moving 
toward the house. The windows gave forth long 
streams of light, and a subdued sound of voices came 
from within the brilliant rooms. To the somewhat 
rusted taste of Reynolds there came, along with the 
gleam of chandeliers and the polite murmur, a little 
thrill, as if he were about to re-enter a long-abandoned 
but much loved atmosphere. Already the old fascina- 
tion was returning. He saw through an open window 
the flutter of fans and the gleam of white throats, 
laces and pearls. For a single instant all the charms 
of young womanhood gayly but modestly attired, 
ready for its half-shy, half-daring little assaults upon 
the masculine heart, burst upon him. As a drunkard, 
after a long abstinence, feels his whole nature change 
at the first sip of wine, Reynolds was at once borne off 
his guard, and for the instant all the period of his 
mountain seclusion disappeared. It was as if his gay, 
almost dissolute life had never been arrested. Some 
one struck a few rapid chords from a grand piano and 
then followed some airy popular song. 


SOME LIGHT TALK. 


5 1 

“ Why the house is full,” said Moreton in an under- 
tone, as they mounted the broad steps to the hall door. 
“ Mr. Noble has exceedingly liberal views on the sub- 
ject of ‘a few friends.’ We are going to see the elite 
of Montgomery as well as the bon ton of Birmingham, 
if I guess correctly.” 

Reynolds made no response. He paused on the 
threshold and stood for a moment in a faltering atti- 
tude. But for the presence of Moreton, he would 
have turned away and retraced his steps to the hotel, 
or, more likely, to his cabin in the mountains. One 
who for years has been entirely beyond the outmost 
pale of polite society, is apt to feel this trepidation, 
when on the point of re-entering the charmed circle. 

The company was not so large as Moreton had imag- 
ined. The evening was warm enough to admit of open 
windows, hence the sound of voices had the more easily 
reached the outside. Fifteen or twenty persons, mostly 
young, were scattered throughout a row of elaborate 
rooms, now made into one by means of folding doors 
and movable curtains. Mr, Noble, if possible more 
supple and elastic than ever before, and Mrs. Noble, a 
tall woman, dressed in elegant taste, greeted Moreton 
and Reynolds with admirable ease and cordiality. The 
company was so small that the arrival of two new 
guests was at once known to all. Moreton glanced 
about, seeing many faces that he knew, but Reynolds 
felt himself a stranger to all. His tall, erect figure, 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


5 * 

bronzed face and graceful bearing attracted the furtive 
glances of more than one woman present. Moreton, in 
bowing low over Mrs. Noble’s hand, had managed to 
say to her unheard by any one else : “ Mr. Reynolds, 
my friend here, is a misanthrope and has long been out 
of society. You will do me the greatest of favors if 
you will make him the especial object of your gracious 
attention this evening.” 

“ Certainly,” she answered, in a very sweet and low 
voice, “ you shall see how readily I grant your every 
request, Mr. Moreton. Leave your friend to me.” 

She kept her promise with scrupulous fidelity, and 
Reynolds found himself drawn into the midst of a 
charming circle, where, for a time, all memory of the past 
few years was drowned in the music of gentle voices. 

Miss Cordelia Noble, the banker’s daughter, with 
whom he presently found himself in conversation, was a 
merry-eyed, ruby-lipped blonde, as supple and ready as 
her father and at need as dignified and gracious as her 
mother. She had just returned with her aunt from 
New York and talked in a most charming way of the 
opening of the social season there, of the parties, the 
opera, the art exhibitions and all the other features of 
importance to fashionable folk in the metropolis. Her 
voice was a sincere, honest, girlish one, and her sayings 
were spiced with those little grotesqueries of thought 
and phrasing which stay with a bright girl for a while 
after her so-called school days are over. Reynolds had 


SOME LIGHT TALK . 


S3 


not dreamed of how hungry he really was for even this 
slight sort of social food, and it was well for him that 
he did not suspect that, before the dinner was half over, 
he had become, by force of tacit consent amongst all 
present, the center of the evening’s interest. 

Moreton was delighted. He had determined to win 
his friend back from his hermit’s life, no matter what 
might have been in the first place the secret reason for 
his retirement to such an outlandish den as the mount- 
aineer’s cabin. 

“ My father has told me that you are to be one of 
the party going with him to General DeKay’s,” Miss 
Noble said to Reynolds. 

“ Yes,” he answered, “and I expect a most delight- 
ful time. I hope you are going too ? ” 

“Yes, I could not afford to let such an opportunity 
pass. I have always greatly desired to see something 
of field sports. I dote on dogs, and I really believe I 
should like to shoot, and ride after the hounds in a real 
fox-chase.” 

“ I am glad you are going,” he said. “Your enthu- 
siasm will be a great help when birds are scarce or when 
we shoot poorly. Will there be other ladies?” 

“ Oh, quite a number, I dare say. There will be one, 
at least, the dearest, charmingest woman that ever 
lived. Mrs. Ransom, a widow, but lovely, fascinating, 
every thing, indeed, that’s sweet and interesting. She 
was married only a few months when her husband died 


54 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


— he was killed in a duel or something romantic, several 
years ago — and she looks like a mere girl now/ 

Miss Noble was looking directly into Reynolds’ face, 
as she delivered this girlish speech, and she saw some- 
thing like a shadow flit across his brow and eyes, as if 
her words had caused him annoyance, but it passed 
away instantly. 

“ If you really are fond of dogs,” he said, “ I shall be 
proud to show you mine. I fancy I have two that can 
not be matched in the whole world.” 

“ What sort are they?” she inquired with immediate 
interest. “ You see my father has made me quite a 
connoisseur ; I am away up in dog-knowledge.” She 
held up a little plump hand to show how high her 
attainments soared. 

“ Are they pointers, setters or droppers ? ” 

Reynolds laughed. Her outright earnestness of 
interest in such a subject amused him, whilst it also 
made him feel justified in pursuing the theme, always a 
pleasant one to a genuine sportsman. 

“ One is a pointer, the other a setter,” he answered. 

“And do they work well together? Do they under- 
stand each other’s movements, back each other, and all 
that?” she inquired. 

“ In the most perfect way imaginable. They are 
like perfectly drilled soldiers, their minds seem to keep 
pace exactly.” 

“ Oh, isn’t it the most beautiful sight ! I know it 


SOME LIGHT TALK. 


55 


must be. My father has described it to me so often 
and I am so anxious to see something of it. I don’t 
know why I shouldn’t, do you ? Mamma rather 
objects — talks of cruelty to birds, and sneers in her 
sweet way, at the idea of a young lady caring for 
field sports. Do you see any wrong in it ? I really 
think I should like to have a gun.” 

“ When I was in India I saw a young lady shoot 
at a tiger,” said Reynolds, “ but she missed it.” 

“ And ever since you have kept the incident in 
mind as proof positive of the modern woman’s ineffi- 
ciency in the field of Diana,” she quickly replied. 

“ Not altogether,” he said; “Diana’s field was so 
broad.” But Miss Noble was not scholar enough to 
feel the point of his meaning. She was ready enough, 
however, and responded : 

“ Oh, yes, the whole blue heaven to sail across ; I had 
forgotten that her glory, after all, was mostly moon- 
shine.” 

“ We poor men have been unable to forget it since 
the dreadful fate of Acteon and the drowsy experi- 
ence of Endymion ; but if you will promise not to 
turn the weapon against me I shall be glad to let 
you try a beautiful little English twenty-gauge gun of 
mine when we find the game.” 

“ How good of you,” she exclaimed delightedly; “ it 
will be charming. Don’t tell mamma, she would ridi- 
cule me out of it.” 


56 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


“Never; I shall die with the secret, if need be. I 
would not miss seeing you fire your first shot for any 
thing.” 

“Now there,” she exclaimed, “ you can’t quite be 
fair; there was something in your voice that sug- 
gested a lack of confidence in my nerve and ability. 
I shan’t shut my eyes and dodge and — and — squeak.” 

“Of course not,” said Reynolds, “I shall expect 
nothing of the kind. You will kill your bird hand- 
somely, and I shall applaud you and give you encore 
and ” 

“ If you are going to make fun of me, I shall stay at 
home,” she exclaimed with spirit. “ I’m in earnest. I 
really wish to know how to shoot.” 

Reynolds’ eyes involuntarily ran over the outlines of 
the girl’s fine form and rested for a moment on her ani- 
mated face. She was indeed in earnest, and she looked 
a perfect model for a Diana, so far as strength and 
symmetry went. True her bright, vivacious American 
face had nothing of the straight-cut Grecian severity of 
beauty, but it was a brave, self-reliant, earnest face, 
tinged with healthy blood and beaming with the spirit 
of girlish enterprise. It needed but a look into her eyes 
for one to know that she was as pure as a violet, with the 
charm of an infinite capacity for love hovering like a 
separate atmosphere about her. She was a woman in 
nothing but physique. Girlhood of the freshest and 
charmingest sort was apparent in all that she said and 


SOME LIGHT TALK. 


57 


did. Reynolds felt her sweet, breeze-like influence 
pass over him with the effect of a rare fragrance. He 
gave himself up wholly to her mood. It was like 
romping in a furtive way, this light, free prattle with 
one so young, so frank, so childlike and so beautiful. 

“Why, if you wish to shoot you shall,” he said with 
smiling earnestness. “ I should be glad to show you 
how. It’s quite easy to learn. There’s nothing diffi- 
cult or objectionable in it.” 

“ Oh, do you really mean it ? Do you think it 
quite proper? I never could see any real impropri- 

ety, and somehow I have fancied that I have a genuine 
passion for it. Perhaps I shall not like it after I have 
tried it — but, yes I shall, I know I shall. Don’t you 
think so? ” 

She had a way of opening her eyes wide, as a child 
does, when asking a question, and she looked straight 
into his with a simple fearlessness that was far removed 
from boldness. 

“ I think you would like any thing that — that — you 
ought to like,” he said. 

“ I do not like that,” she replied naively ; “it has the 
ring of flattery. Why do men always do that ? Do 
they think we like it ? ” 

“I don’t think you do,” he responded, laughing and 
opening his eyes a little wider in turn. “ I really didn’t 
mean flattery, however : I meant to say that you are 
constituted to enjoy real, rational pastimes and recrea- 


58 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES . 


tions, that you have healthy, natural tastes. That is not 
flattery, I hope." 

“You put it in the least objectionable shape, to say 
the least,” she replied, “and I am willing to compro- 
mise, remembering your promise about the gun. I 
have an ambition that I will confide to you.” She 
leaned toward him a little and added : “ When I go to 
Newport next summer I want to be able to tell my 
friends about shooting quails in Alabama. It will be 
so much better than their poor mockery of fox-chasing 
— that’s absurd.” 

“Ah, I begin to understand,” said Reynolds. “You 
may count on me to aid you in every possible way. 
You shall have most interesting and realistic experi- 
ences to relate at the seaside, if you will let me be your 
guide and teacher. I beg to be your abettor-in-chief.” 

Mrs. Noble and Moreton approached, just at this 
point, and the subject was dropped. In fact Moreton 
at once drew Miss Cordelia away to some other part of 
the house, and managed to be near her for the rest of 
the evening. But the girl left with Reynolds some- 
thing that lingered, diffusing itself throughout his con- 
sciousness, with the effect of a mildly exhilarating 
potion. Strangely enough, the words of Moreton’s 
little song : 

‘ * The light of her eyes 
And the dew of her lips, 

Where the moth never flies 
And the bee never sips, ” 


SOME LIGHT TALK. 


59 


had all the evening been tinkling in his ears. Not that 
Miss Noble had troubled him in the least with any 
thing like love at first sight. She was not a girl for 
him to fall in love with ; but her gentle, earnest voice, 
her grace of person and manner, and her half-girlish, 
half-womanly independence of speech had touched him 
and quickened in him germs of sympathy he had 
thought long since dead. He felt old dry wells of feel- 
ing bubbling afresh. He was gently moved as if by a 
subtle change within him. Mrs. Noble found him 
with this mood upon him, and it lent to his talk its 
freshness and fascination. She was charmed, and when 
she was told that for the past six years he had scarcely 
left the cabin over in the mountains, the touch of mys- 
tery did not lessen her interest in him. 

Moreton, without thought of what sympathy he might 
arouse by his peculiarly graphic manner of presenting 
the subject, described to Miss Cordelia the wild, 
strange prettiness of Milly White and the pathetic 
ignorance in which her whole nature seemed steeped. 

“Why, how romantic!” she exclaimed, “she must 
be interesting. She ought to be taught. There may 
be something well worth developing behind those 
wonderful, mysterious eyes of that girl.” 

Cordelia’s school days were not yet so far in the past 
that she had got rid of certain academical theories. 
She still reveled in the belief that education might 
make a king of a forg. 


6o 


AT LO VE'S EXTREMES. 


“ If she could be taught,” said Moreton, in a reflect- 
ive way ; “ but I suppose such a thing is impossible. 
She comes of such vulgar ancestry, ignorance and stu- 
pidity are her heritage, don’t you know, and she prob- 
ably has no capacity. Her limitations are set and 
nothing can broaden them, I fear. But her beauty, if 
it may be called by that name, is certainly remarkable. 
I have never seen a more perfect form — petite, lithe as 
a leopard’s and as graceful as a fawn’s, and her face has 
something in it so appealingly and so hopelessly sweet 
and pure. But then such vacancy, such hideous 
ignorance.” 

Cordelia grew interested. Her vivid imagination 
took quick and strong hold on his sketch of this mount- 
ain girl, filling in with its own lines and coloring the 
spaces he had left. 

“Why hasn’t Mr. Reynolds taught her?” she 
exclaimed, with just a trace of deprecation in her 
voice. “He has been over there so long, living in the 
same house. It’s a shame that he has not directed 

her mind so as to awaken some ” she stopped 

short and a little color flushed her cheeks. 

“Oh, Reynolds sees nothing of her fine points,” 
Moreton hastened to say without choice of words. 
“ He’s a Southerner, don’t you know, and considers her 
poor white trash— that’s the phrase here. He thinks it 
absurd that a gentleman should look at such a girl 
long enough to form any opinion as to the question of 
her beauty.” 


SOME LIGHT TALK. 


6 1 


The conversation was broken in upon and ended at 
this point by some trivial turn of the evening’s hap- 
penings, and soon after Reynolds and Moreton took 
their leave. 

They walked toward the hotel, each silently revolving 
in his mind that part of his experience at the banker’s 
house which had chanced to most deeply impress him. 
Reynolds, in fact, was scarcely conscious of his compan- 
ion’s presence, so full was he of many other indetermi- 
nate but wholly pleasing plans for making Miss Noble 
happy with his dogs and gun when they should meet 
at General DeKay’s plantation. Moreton had lighted 
a cigarette and pulled his hat down over his eyes. 

“ This girl of White’s — how old is she, Reynolds ? ” 
he presently inquired, in a tone so abrupt that his com- 
panion looked up as if startled. “ She’s scarcely a 
woman yet, is she ? ” 

Reynolds did not answer promptly, but kept his 
eyes on Moreton’s face while they walked two or three 
paces. 

“ Oh, the devil, what do I know or care about her ? ” 
he at length said. “You’d better go out and inter- 
view her. She seems to have tangled your fancy.” 
The words look brutal, but his voice and manner were 
merely indifferent and light, with a touch of good- 
humored raillery. 

“She does stay in my head somehow,” Moreton 
frankly replied. “ And I confess that it amazes me 


6 2 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


to know that you have never discovered what deuced 
physical perfection she has. You needn’t try to make 
me believe in your obtuseness, however ; I know you 
too well, don’t you know.” 

Reynolds laughed, and laying his hand on More- 
ton’s arm, said : 

“ You have happened to see her at some exceptional 
angle and with an artist’s eye. Poor little thing, it is 
a small measure that fills her life. Hers is a hopeless 
lot. Let’s choose a better subject. Now there’s Miss 
Noble.” 

Moreton did not respond promptly, but looked 
rather searchingly at his friend. He almost resented 
the democratic freedom that linked so readily and inti- 
mately the names of Milly White and Cordelia Noble. 
Presently he said : 

“ Miss Noble is an exceptional American girl. She 
has all the na'fvet£ and freshness of the country with- 
out any trace of its deuced vulgarity.” 

“Your long residence of two months in this great 
country fully equips you for criticism,” replied Reynolds 
with mock gravity. 

“ I have lived a thousand years in America,” was 
Moreton’s response. “ Every hour has been a decade. 
I never felt a genuine sentiment before I came here. 
You must pardon me if I arrogate to myself the right 
to speak patronizingly to one who has only been here 
thirty or thirty-five years.” 


SOME LIGHT TALK. 


^3 


“ I see how it is,” said Reynolds. “ The same old story. 
Another sweetheart. You had four in Paris, three in 
Rome, two in Geneva, two in — — ” 

“Oh, come now, none of that,” Moreton exclaimed 
with an impatient gesture. “ For once and forever I 
am in earnest, don’t you know. I mean to marry Miss 
Noble.” 

“ I am heartily glad of it,” said Reynolds, grasping 
his friend’s hand. “ I cordially congratulate you, More- 
ton. What a sweet, bright, perfectly natural girl she 
is ! I honor you all the more for your choice.” 

As they walked on to the hotel, Reynolds was think- 
ing what a fair outcome this marriage would be to 
Moreton’s rather adventuresome bachelor career. He 
did not dare figure for himself any thing so happy, 
but his imagination was full of floating, rosy fantasies, 
formless as yet, but ready to take almost any shape of 
beauty, grace or passion. He felt a quicker movement 
of his blood, he breathed deeper, a wider horizon seemed 
open to him all at once. He dared not try to analyze 
his state of feeling, lest the test should dissfpate it. 
Like some mere stripling just fallen in love, he heard 
all through his dreams that night a sweet, strange voice 
singing that light stanza of Moreton’s song : 

“ The light of her eyes 
And the dew of her lips, 

Where the moth never flies 
And the bee never sips.’' 


CHAPTER VI. 


AT THE GATE. 

R EYNOLDS started to go on foot to White’s cabin 
among the mountains. His immediate purpose 
was to arrange for sending his dogs down to Birming- 
ham in a few days, in order that they might be ready 
for the trip to General DeKay’s. He was glad of this 
excuse for getting away for a time from the town, out 
into the woods, where he might try to understand him- 
self ; for he was in a mood very different from any he 
had experienced in the last six years, and in fact very 
different from any he ever before had realized. Since the 
evening of Mr. Noble’s dinner a change had been going 
on within him. It was as if some reservoir of feeling, 
hitherto sealed up, had been tapped, from which a rare 
sensation had diffused itself throughout his being, 
mildly thrilling his nerves and vaguely firing his blood. 
He could trace this change to no definite source, nor 
could he be sure whether it tended toward some new 
and brighter phase of his variable life, or toward some 
lurking evil. He felt the pressure of a doubtful pre- 
sentiment, as all strongly imaginative natures at times 
do, and in the midst of a vivid sense of pleasure there 
hovered a dim shadow of dread. 


A T' THE GA TE. 


65 


It was in the twilight following an unusually warm 
day, that he turned aside from the highway to follow a 
trail leading over a spur of the mountain on the further 
side of which stood White’s cabin. The stars were 
already coming out in the soft, southern sky, and a 
slender moon hung half-way down the west. The air 
was fragrant with the keen essence of resin and the 
balsam of pine leaves, but there was scarcely more than 
a mere breath astir among the frondous groves. He 
walked rapidly, unconsciously timing his strides to the 
pulses of his mood. Why would the voice of Miss 
Noble keep ringing in his ears, and her earnest, honest 
eyes keep looking straight into his with some almost 
imperceptible shadow of rebuke in them ? And why 
did the poor little face of Milly White now and again 
force itself upon his inner vision? He could hardly be 
called morbidly sensitive, but he had been for so long 
a time shut away from the finer and sweeter social 
influences. Somewhat a dreamer, too, as are all per- 
sons who dwell apart with nature and art. Since his 
hermit life began he had been a contributor, under a 
nom de plume , to a number of English and American pub- 
lications, both as an artist and as a writer, so that he 
had divided his time between the pleasures of the 
sportsman and the milder excitements of the provincial 
magazineist. He had fancied for a long time that he 
was happy, and that all the fascination of woman’s 
charms had ceased for him. Now as he strode along 


66 


AT LOVE'S EX 7 REMES. 


he was loth to admit, even in the secrecy of self-com- 
munion, that the old influence was taking hold again 
with a zest as fresh as it was keen and deep. He stopped 
at the highest point reached by the sinuous trail and 
sat down upon a stone. The tall, puffy column of 
black smoke from the iron furnaces rose slantingly 
against the line of sky above the valley where the town 
lay. In another direction, beyond a dusky gulch, some 
lines of fire were burning along the mountain sides, like 
the lights of an army camp. He tried to analyze his 
feelings, but the effort was futile ; he got up and went 
on down to the cabin, his blood tingling as if with wine. 

The moon had fallen to the western mountain-tops 
and was touching a peak with its delicate horn when 
he reached the rustic gate. Milly was there, as was her 
wont, to welcome him home. 

“ I knowed ’at ye’d come,” she said, “ fur I dremp 
last night at ye was dead an’ ’at’s a sign, ye know.” 

Her face, upturned to his, caught from the faint 
moonlight, or from some other heavenly reflection, a 
gleam of peaceful happiness that added something 
which Reynolds never before had seen there, or if ever 
he had seen it, it was when, a mere child, she had so 
faithfully hung over him and tended him through a 
long and almost fatal illness. The memory of her 
untiring patience and gentleness, her quick sense of 
his needs and her silent but evidently deep joy at his 
final recovery, now suddenly rushed upon him. 


A T THE GA TE. 


67 


“ I’ve ben a wushin’ ye’d come an’ I’m so glad ! ” she 
murmured, as she opened the gate for him. “ Hit air 
so lonesome when ye’r away.” 

Her lithe, plump figure was clothed in a clinging 
gown of cotton stuff and a white kerchief was pinned 
about her throat. Down over her shoulders in a long, 
rather thin brush fell her rimpled pale yellow hair. 
Her cheeks glowed and her lips had on them the dew 
of innocent and, alas, ignorant maidenhood. A flash 
of recognition leaped into the mind of Reynolds, 
though he was scarcely conscious of it, and Milly 
White’s strange beauty was no longer invisible to him. 

“ Ye ortn’t to stay away so long,” she added, not in 
rebuke, but in a low, quavering voice like that of some 
happy bird. Her mountain dialect, crabbed as it 
appears in writing, added emphasis to the fresh, half 
wild tenderness of her tones. 

All around the woods and little broken fields were 
dim and silent. The warm southern stars burned over- 
head and the fitful balmy air crept past with furtive 
whispers. The moon slipped down behind the mount- 
ain, leaving on the peak a delicate wavering ghost that 
slowly vanished into the common haze of the night. 
Reynolds paused in the little gateway and looked down 
into Milly’s lifted shining face. In that instant a tender 
feeling, a subtle sense of some obscure but immediate 
draught upon the inner sources of his passionate nature, 
took complete possession of him. The touching sweet- 


68 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


ness of her face, the wild grace of her form, and that 
charming expression of strength and development, 
impressed him. He forgot the cabin, the pinched and 
sapless mountain life and all its empty hopelessness. 
For the time he saw nothing but Milly as his over- 
stimulated imagination lighted her face and form with 
the allurements of irresistible beauty. He stooped, 
and, swiftly folding her in his arms, kissed her passion- 
ately. 

“ Oh ! ” she cried, her voice slipping with sharp sweet- 
ness away through the dusky woods. It was like the 
quick musical chirp of a glad bird. She clung to him 
with strong, loving arms. 

He let her go presently and said : 

“ It is late for you to be out ; come in now, the night 
air is beginning to be chilly and you’ll catch a cold.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” she naively responded, “ let’s us stay out 
yer, they’re a smokin’ in ther, an’ hit’s so nice ter be 
out yer.” Her mountain dialect, as filtered through 
her pure, peculiarly musical voice, lost all its harshness 
and became a fitting expression of a part of the fasci- 
nating enigma of her character. “Ye’v’ ben away 
so long, John, an’ sometimes I wus afeared to go er- 
sleep ’cause ye wus gone, an’ ’cause I’d dream ye wus 
dead.” 

“ Well, come in now,” he gently urged, drawing the 
long pale brush of her hair through his hand and pass- 
ing on into the cabin. 


A T THE GA TE. 


69 


She looked after him, the smile slowly fading out of 
her face and giving place to that half-vacant, mildly 
hopeless expression which it usually wore. She put 
her rather large but finely chiseled hands on top of her 
head, with the fingers laced together, and with her 
elbows extended gazed listlessly at the sky. She felt 
a vague sense of disappointment blended with a deli- 
cious happiness. When Reynolds entered the cabin, 
White and his wife were leaning over a mere pretense 
of fire and smoking their pipes, with such abandonment 
to the luxury that they merely glanced at him as he 
entered; but mountain politeness overcame the tobacco 
at last, and they got up, greeting him warmly. He 
shook hands with them in turn, asking about their 
health, but declined to sit down, preferring after a few 
commonplace inquiries, to go into his own room and 
be alone. 

His first sensation on entering his apartment was 
one of disgust at its rough and uninviting aspect. 
Indirectly the question was assailing him : why had he 
ever been content in such a place? A query of this 
nature may arise in one’s mind without any definite 
form, impressing itself by a sort of implication and 
indirect reflection from a throng of comparisons invol- 
untarily and almost unconsciously made. Reynolds’ 
nature was intensely virile, his passions powerful and 
his imagination tropical. It goes with the saying that 
his feelings and tastes were subject to violent and sud- 


7d 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


den changes. He usually had, however, perfect self- 
control and an outward appearance of calmness under 
the most trying circumstances. But let the check-rein 
once break and his fiery passions get control of the bit, 
then nothing that passion demands could escape him. 
He was aware of this ; he knew the need of self- 
restraint, for at the bottom his was a noble soul, full 
of self-sacrifice and generous, liberal manliness. 

On the floor by his easel lay a scrap of white paper 
with something scrawled upon it. He picked it up 
mechanically and saw that Milly had been trying to 
copy the dog-sketch that still rested on the easel. It 
was a poor, crude scratch, such as a little child might 
have accomplished, showing in its stiff, hesitating lines 
the limitations of the girl’s vague notion of art. He 
smiled at this evidence of the first stirrings of culture 
in a handful of almost barren soil. Art is forever drop- 
ping seeds that germinate under all the exigencies of 
weather. Few of the shootlets live to show more than 
a tender point above the surface of the ground, but 
their number is legion and each spike gives to the air 
an infinitesimal trace of fragrance which cheers us as 
we breathe. 

While he stood looking at her work, Milly came into 
the room through a doorway that led from the kitchen. 
He was still smiling when he looked towards her and 
said : 

“ Did you draw this, Milly ? ” 


A T THE GA TE. 


7 T 


She put her hands over her face and leaned against 
the wall. The light from a large lamp on the table 
gave to her figure the effect of a strong sketch in char- 
coal. He noted her attitude with an artist’s eye, and 
with a man’s eyes, too. There was a bird-like grace 
in the droop of her shoulders and in the fine curves of 
her body and limbs. Her flaxen hair gave forth just a 
modicum of golden light. 

He did not repeat his inquiry. Something in her 
appearance checked him. All that Moreton had said 
about her came into his mind with almost startling 
force. How clearly he felt now the dryad-like strength 
of her figure, and the infantile purity of her face. She 
had the soul of a woman, too, for how tenderly she had 
nursed him. 

“ Get me my slippers, please, Milly,” he presently 
said, more to break up the situation than with a desire 
to be served. 

She let fall her hands and sprang to obey him, with 
the noiseless swiftness of a kitten. She fetched his 
slippers, and also his dressing gown, from a corner of 
the room. This done she lingered near him for awhile, 
as if hoping he might need some further help. She 
would not look straight at him now, but kept her 
face half turned away, glancing sidewise under her 
drooping eyelids, one hand fluttering idly about the 
kerchief at her throat. 

Some one lifted the latch of the door leading to the 


72 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


room in which White and his wife were smoking. At 
the first click Milly darted noiselessly into the kitchen. 
It was White, who hesitatingly thrust his head past the 
door-post and said : 

“ I loaded three hunderd carterges fur the twelve-bore 
gun.” 

“ Load a hundred for the twenty-gauge, if you please,” 
said Reynolds, “ two and a half drams of powder and 
three-quarters of an ounce of number eight shot. Put 
two wads on the powder, don’t forget.” 

“All right, sir, I air ’quainted wuth jest what ye 
want. Them shells ’ll be fixed up jest to the dot. Ye 
orter see them air dogs, they shine same like they’d 
ben ’iled.” 

“ Thank you, I’m glad of that. Good night,” said 
Reynolds, anxious to get back to his thoughts. 

White withdrew his head. 

Milly, from the shadows of the kitchen, gazed fixedly 
at Reynolds, as he stood in the mellow light of the lamp. 

He was, indeed, a man pleasing to look upon, strong, 
tall, nobly proportioned, with a grand head and a dark, 
handsome face. His limbs were long and muscular, 
his shoulders square and broad, his chest deep, his 
waist rather slender, his whole bearing that of a man 
by birth and of right a gentleman, and by reason of 
health and training an athlete. Say what we may, 
such a man bears about with him a power of fascina- 
tion, a magnetism able to work great good or great evil 


AT THE GATE . 


73 


or both. He is a flame in which a soul may be warmed or 
burned up, according to circumstances. A girl of Milly’s 
ignorance and inexperience had nothing to protect 
her from such danger as his influence might bring. She 
would have gone unhesitatingly to any length he might 
have asked, without the slightest thrill of doubt or fear. 
Hers was not a nature capable of much expansion or 
improvement. A long line of mountain ancestors had 
fixed in her the hereditary simpleness, narrowness and 
mental barrenness of the Sandlapper; but along with 
these limitations had come the gift of a flower-like 
beauty of form and face, and a voice sweeter than any 
bird’s. She had come up in a wild, lonely way, run- 
ning free in wind and sun and rain, quite illiterate, 
utterly unaware of conventional proprieties, truthful, 
honest, affectionate, passionate, after a fashion, and as 
independent as any deer in the woods. 

It would not be making the statement too strong to 
say that Reynolds came to a discovery of her striking 
beauty as one comes upon those haunting visions of 
loveliness in one’s dreams. Why had he not noticed it 
before ? He was vaguely aware that in some way Cordelia 
Noble had opened his eyes by stirring up the stagnant 
fountains of his nature and setting old currents to flow- 
ing in his veins. Her light girlish prattle had fallen 
into his ears with the effect that a shower produces on 
parched and withered sod, and it had had the charm of 
bird-songs after a long, dreary winter. 


74 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


He remained at the cabin several days before the 
time came for going to General DeKay’s, and it was 
in some way soothing and restful to have Milly shyly 
hovering around him. He did not fully realize how 
deeply he was absorbed in studying her face, her form, 
her free, wild grace of motion and attitude, and the 
strange, crude music of her voice. She followed him 
wherever he went, or at least whenever he would per- 
mit it, content to be near him, like some faithful ani- 
mal. She had always acted thus, but he never had 
noticed it before. 

When at last the time arrived for his departure for 
General DeKay’s, Reynolds rose early in the morning 
to get ready for the little journey. The DeKay 
place was down on the Alabama river, near Mont- 
gomery, and the company from Birmingham would go 
by rail to the former city, where General DeKay would 
have carriages for them. The fact is that Reynolds 
had no physical preparations to make, these having all 
been attended to with shrewd faithfulness by White ; 
but there was a sort of indefinable dread, or aversion, 
or some other objection hovering in his mind in con- 
nection with the thought of leaving his retirement, his 
hermitage, and floating out once more upon the open 
sea of life. In the early gray of morning he crept 
silently from the cabin and walked or rather climbed 
to the mountain top and sat down on a stone with his 
face to the east. He had spent a restless night, 


AT THE GATE.. 


75 


indulging, between snatches of unrefreshing sleep, 
regret, remorse, repentance and other nightmares of 
conscience. He had almost involuntarily sought this 
high perch overlooking all the country round, as if 
expecting to be purified by the soft rare atmosphere 
and the exhilarating wildness and freshness of the 
view. The east was all aglow with the wonder of sun- 
rise, whilst the valley wherein Birmingham lay was 
shrouded in a mottled cloak of coal smoke from the 
furnaces. The foot-hills, clothed in their bristling 
pines and ragged scrub-oaks, were softened almost into 
tenderness by the blueish film hovering over them. A 
dewy coolness and sweetness came up on the morning 
wind as if out of the lowest stratum of the valley, in 
strong contrast with the absolute dryness of the 
stony mountain top. Slowly the fire of the sunrise 
increased in the filmy east until the great morning- 
gate seemed suddenly to fly open with a wide upward 
flare of flame and long, glowing spears of gold reach- 
ing out across the valley and billowy foot-hills. 
Reynolds was in a condition that demanded solitude, 
and yet he felt no definite purpose in the mood, no 
clear reason for desiring to be alone. It filled him 
with a sudden annoyance when a slight sound caused 
him to turn and see Milly standing close by, bare- 
headed and smiling radiantly. He frowned. 

“What are you here for, Milly?” he demanded 
sternly. “ Go back immediately.” 


76 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


The girl did not speak. The light went out of her 
face and a strange grayness overspread it instead. 
She turned about with a shrinking motion and 
walked slowly away down the steep slope of the 
mountain into the straggling wood. Almost immedi- 
ately Reynolds felt how brutal his act had been and 
regretted it, hated himself for it. He arose as if to 
follow her, but faltered and hesitated, allowing his 
eyes to wander over the grand mountain landscape 
now flooded with the full light of the sun. What sort 
of change was this that was coming into his life? 
Something like a warning shadow had fallen into his 
soul, and yet some sweet foreboding was with it, some 
tender, subtle charm luring him with a deep and sweet 
fascination. He stood a while gazing dreamily, but 
seeing nothing, then, shaking himself as one freeing 
himself from slumber, he walked rapidly in the direc- 
tion taken by Milly. Half way down the slope in a 
shadowy clump of dwarf pines he found the girl sit- 
ting on an old log, her face buried in her hands, 
sobbing bitterly. He stopped close to her and stood 
for a moment looking at her. How pitiful a picture 
she made, with her drooping little form, almost cov- 
ered by the thin gold veil of bright disheveled hair, 
outlined against a tangle of broken boughs ! He sat 
down beside her and took one of her wet little hands 
in his. 


CHAPTER VII. 


AN OLD PLANTATION HOUSE. 

ENERAL DeKAY’S house was on a slight knoll 



VJT overlooking in one direction the Alabama river, 
and a broad stretch of fertile cotton lands, whilst 
every other view was lost in the dense shadows 
of semi-tropical woods. The building was wholly 
wanting in architectural beauty, yet it was picturesque 
enough, with its wide verandas and tall, heavy, stuc- 
coed columns, its many-gabled roof and huge stack of 
chimneys. Tall magnolia trees grew about it, vines 
clambered over it, and its small-paned, many-mullioned 
windows and open halls, gave it an air of old-fashioned 
conservatism and hospitality quite in a line with what 
one has always read and heard of southern country 
life among the wealthy planters of the Gulf States. 
Spaciousness was the most marked feature of the 
building. The rooms were many and large, arranged 
for the comforts of unlimited light and air. When 
the windows and doors were all thrown .open, a 
breeze blowing from any quarter flowed through the 
house with unchecked freedom. The floors were of 
ash, mostly uncarpeted, and the walls and ceilings 


78 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


were heavily paneled with oak. Wide winding 
stairways and huge fire-places, cumbrous chande- 
liers and sconces, together with what appeared 
an over-crowded amount of massive old-time furniture, 
suggested a formal stateliness rather out of keeping with 
that freedom of welcome which was and is the distinct- 
ive charm of southern hospitality. The mansion had 
been built and furnished long before the war, in the 
most prosperous and extravagant days of slavery, when 
the planter knew no limit to his ability to make and 
spend and when he set no bound to the number of his 
guests or the length of their stay under his roof. 
The dark gray stucco and weather-beaten shingles, 
together with the old-time arrangement of the doors 
and windows, gave to the building a very ancient look, 
as if it might have stood there since a time when men 
lived as did the old fighting and feasting barons of 
medieval England. Bucks’ antlers hung in the hall, 
along with heavy rifles and fowling pieces, and a few 
striking ancestral portraits looked down from the dark 
walls. It had known much revelry of a thoroughly 
proper sort, this grand old home of the DeKays, and 
its inmates, for several generations, had exerted a 
marked influence in the social and political affairs of 
the state. The present owner had been a fighting gen- 
eral in the confederate army and had won by heroic 
bravery the right to his distinguished military title. 

When the party from Birmingham reached this 


AN OLD PLANT A TION HOUSE . 


79 


charming old house by the river, it was late in the after- 
noon. Several other guests had already arrived from 
Montgomery, Pensacola and Mobile. A corps of 
obsequious and clever negro servants, of both sexes and 
various ages, were ready to attend all comers. The 
host, a slender man of middle height, wearing a gray 
military beard, greeted every body with low bows and 
profuse words of welcome, whilst his rather stout and 
altogether good and motherly wife had a way that was 
welcome itself. 

Reynolds and Moreton were given rooms adjoining 
and connected by a door, their windows looking down 
a long shining reach of the reed-bordered river. An 
ideal place to sit and smoke, Moreton thought, as he 
lighted a cigarette and drew a chair so that he could 
watch the silvery winged kite sailing about in the dis- 
tance, its forked tail and small head giving it the effect 
of a fanciful Japanese design wavering on the back- 
ground of blue-gray sky. A flock of domestic geese 
were on the river, floating idly, now and then lifting 
their wings and flapping them rapidly and screaming 
in clamorous concert. Wide fields, gently rolling, and 
distinctly showing the ridged and parallel rows of cot- 
ton and corn stalks, swept away almost to the horizon, 
bounded on one hand by the river, and on the other by 
a thick wood, where even the deciduous trees still re- 
tained a trace of summer greenery. Something in the 
air suggested the sea, and a sensation, as of extreme 


8o 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


remoteness and isolation, took possession of Moreton’s 
mind. It was his first experience of life on a low- 
country plantation. The idyllic simplicity, quietude 
and serenity impressed him as much as did the state- 
liness and amplitude. Here was an estate of thousands 
of acres — many miles in extent — bearing on its surface 
all the marks of almost primitive modes of husbandry. 
Worm fences, shallow plowing, the use of hoe and 
wooden rake ; gates with pins and sockets instead of 
latches, clap-boards instead of shingles and plank, and 
so on throughout the gamut of bucolic appurtenances 
long since discarded in thrifty and progressive regions. 
But beyond all this, there was that indescribable air of 
isolation from the rest of the world, as if the plantation 
were an independent self-sufficient hereditament of the 
DeKays, owing no allegiance to any power outside its 
boundary lines. No other house, save the small cabins 
of negro tenants scattered here and there, was visible. 
The estate was too large to admit of neighbors. 

When Moreton and Reynolds went down to the 
drawing-room they found themselves in the midst of a 
company composed largely of gentlemen, there being 
but four ladies besides the hostess. Miss Noble was 
surrounded by a group of young sportsmen freely dis- 
cussing hunting and shooting topics, her bright, strong 
face and Juno form showing at their best. A tall young 
woman, a Miss Beresford from Montgomery, whose father 
had been governor of the state— and whose brother, Mr. 


AN OLD PLANT A T/ON HOUSE. 


81 


Mallory Beresford, a noted shot, was present — stood 
near a window in conversation with Mr. Noble and 
General DeKay. But the most striking group in the 
room was composed of Mr. Mallory Beresford and two 
ladies, one a quick-spoken, alert, rather faded looking 
blonde, whose lips could not cover her irregular teeth, 
the other a pale, sweet-faced, almost slight young 
person, whose bearing, though decidedly womanly and 
dignified, had a girlish charm wholly indescribable. The 
blonde was speaking in a rapid manner, and her words, 
sharply accentuated, reached the ears of Reynolds : 

“ Oh, I am really not a guest,” she was saying, “ I 
invited myself. I came to gather material for a letter 
to our paper. I begged the privilege of General 
DeKay. A description of a shooting-party on a gen- 
uine old Southern plantation is a rare find for a corre- 
spondent. I feel that I am in grand luck.” Her ges- 
tures amounted to gesticulations. 

“ Ah, Miss Crabb, what journal do you represent? ” 
inquired Mr. Beresford in a voice modulated to the 
gentlest southern inflections. 

“The Ringville-Star, of Ringville, Indiana. I am the 
associate editor,” she glibly responded. 

Reynolds heard this much with his eyes fixed on the 
face of the other woman whose smile had that rare 
quality of sweetness suggesting sadness, and whose 
large, soft blue eyes beamed with a tenderness and 
truthfulness that seemed in some way touched with 


A 7' LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


82 

well repressed trouble. There are faces whose expres- 
sion will at first sight suggest some secret story of grief 
or wrong or regret. Sometimes a high order of beauty 
will, of itself, carry with it, as the flower carries its per- 
fume, a haunting reminder, or half-reminder, of the sub- 
tle ways of fate. Reynolds was aware that General 
DeKay was coming across the room to meet him, but 
he could not tear his gaze from the young woman’s 
lovely face. 

“ I haven’t presented you to my niece,” said the Gen- 
eral, taking the young man’s arm. “ She is really my 
daughter now, for I have made her my heir. Haven’t 
much left for her to inherit, however, save a good old 
name.” 

For a moment Reynolds’ hand closed over the warm, 
dainty fingers extended towards him, and he bowed 
low before Mrs. Ransom — Agnes Ransom, a name that 
was soon to become one of thrilling sweetness to him. 

“ Oh, it’s very pleasant, in many ways, to belong to 
the press,” Miss Crabb was saying. “ One can go 
every where and see every thing. The railroads give us 
free passes and the hotels put our rates to the lowest. 
For instance, how could I ever have found my way into 
this delightful house and this charming company, if I 
hadn’t carried the magic of the press with me? ” She 
ended with a rather musical laugh. Her question was 
one that Beresford dared not attempt to answer, for, in 
fact, he knew of no other way by which she could have 


AN OLD PLANT A TION HOUSE. 


83 


gained an entrance to this secluded and exclusive place. 
It chanced that he knew how the editor of a Mont- 
gomery paper had interested himself in Miss Crabb’s 
behalf and begged General DeKay to extend her the 
privilege of “writing up” the shoot. 

“ She seems to be an excellent young woman, and 
then her paper is hopelessly obscure. You needn't 
fear you will ever hear of it again, unless she sends you 
a copy,” the editor urged, “ and I feel a sort of frater- 
nal responsibility for her freedom of the country while 
she’s here. We can’t be too tender in our treatment of 
Northern editors. Whatever we do offensive to the 
least one of them will be trumpeted to the four winds 
by them all.” 

Beresford very much desired to talk with Mrs. Ran- 
som, but the glib representative of the Star went on so 
rapidly that he could find no chance for withdrawing 
his attention. Then when Reynolds appeared on the 
scene all hope faded out. 

“You are a fine shot, Mr. Beresford, I presume,” 
continued Miss Crabb, “ kill birds on the wing? ” 

“ I believe I am a fair shot,” he answered, with a 
true sportsman’s faith in the impressiveness of mod- 
esty. “ I shoot well enough to enjoy the sport.” 

“ I saw Captain Bogardus and Dr. Carver shoot 
together once,” she said, “and it was just lovely. They 
hit most every time — little glass balls thrown out of a 
trap. It was extraordinary.” 


$4 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES . 


Reynolds and Mrs. Ransom had moved away. It 
was a great relief to Beresford when dinner was an- 
nounced. At any other time he might have been able 
to bear, and even enjoy Miss Crabb’s rapid and versa- 
tile conversation, but now that Agnes Ransom was 
seemingly absorbed in listening to this dark, handsome 
stranger, he could not keep his wits about him. Miss 
Crabb had to do all the talking, a thing she did not 
seem to regard as a hardship. 

“ There is a veritable ruin near here, I am told,” she 
said, “ a picturesque old heap, the remains of a grand 
mansion, on a bluff by the river. I should very much 
like to go and see it before I return to Montgomery. 
Do you know any thing abx>ut it ?” 

“No, I regret that I have not the pleasure. I believe 
I have never heard of it,” he answered. “ General 
DeKay should be able to inform you.” And so he 
conducted her to the host and hastened to another part 
of the'room, conscious of having been guilty of a petty 
turn. 

Moreton had joined the group of which Miss Noble 
was the light, whilst Reynolds and Mrs. Ransom had 
found their way to Miss Beresford, whose ultra Southern 
face and figure were supplemented by conversational 
graces strikingly suggestive of a social era almost for- 
gotten, save among the most conservative people of the 
low country. She was tall and dark, with regular feat- 
ures, large, rather expressionless black eyes and straight 


AN OLD PLANT A TION HOUSE . 85 

black hair. Mrs. Ransom introduced Reynolds, and 
then dinner was announced. 

“ This is a gentlemen’s party,” Miss Beresford said, 
on the way to the dining-room, “ and it has been 
arranged that the ladies shall act as waiters, and we 
beg you not to criticise our methods too severely — we 
are not perfectly trained to the work.” 

“ One who has been for several years living in the 
family of a mountaineer, as I have, should not be in a 
criticising mood,” responded Reynolds ; “ how shall 
such an one presume to judge whether or no you bal- 
ance a tray artistically ? ” 

He spoke lightly, but the word mountaineer, as he 
uttered it, called up with electrical swiftness, a thought 
that sent a strange thrill through him. A low, patheti- 
cally plaintive voice seemed to speak to him in the 
mountain dialect. He saw a little coarsely-clad form 
leaning on the gate at White’s, with the pale starlight 
glimmering on its upturned face. 

As Miss Beresford had said it was to be, the dinner 
was served by the ladies, who passed behind the chairs 
of the gentlemen, flitting nimbly back and forth, receiv- 
ing the viands from the hands of negro servants at the 
door of an ante-room, and presenting them to the 
guests. It was a study worthy of an artist’s handling, 
that ample dining-room, with its curiously carved 
panels of oak, its antique mahogany side-board, its 
ponderous brass chandeliers and its high-backed chairs. 


86 


A T LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


Even Miss Crabb, as she actively busied herself with 
the part of the duties that fell to her share, showed to 
picturesquely good effect amidst such foils to her 
vivacious face and restless energy. 

She was, by temperament and education, a person 
not likely to slight any opportunity of furthering her 
own plans, no matter how great the breach of small 
proprieties involved in the act. Even as she brightly 
and smartly hurried hither and thither around the 
table, she was thinking of how her experiences and 
observations here at the DeKay mansion would look 
in the pages of a certain magazine, if only she could 
get it accepted, with a number of picturesque, ultra 
Southern illustrations, and with her name appended in 
full : Sara Annah Crabb. She imagined the stir such 
an event would cause in Ringville, where as yet her 
genius was not especially admired. She nursed a 
dream of sudden fame quite masculine and muscular, 
so to speak, which would enable her to get even with 
the male editors who had so often made sport of her 
prose and verse and even of her name. She was a 
good girl, honest, conscientious and full of kindness, 
but she had had a very hard struggle with life, and she 
was mightily ambitious. The adroitness with which 
she now and then slipped from her pocket a little 
note-book and pencil and the rapidity with which she 
jotted down certain memoranda of what she saw or 
heard prevented much notice being given to the 


AN OLD PLANT A T ION HOUSE . 


37 


incivility by either host or guests. Indeed she had a 
quiet, semi-furtive celerity that, coupled with what 
may be called an insignificance of manner, neutralized 
any vulgarity which otherwise would have been observ- 
able to an offensive degree. Then, too, she talked 
so rapidly and volubly that if one looked at her at all 
one must have been wholly occupied with what her 
lips were doing. It was a wonder how she could 
impress one as being a very quiet person and yet be 
skipping about and talking like that. 

She was a revelation to Moreton. She gave him a 
glimpse of American intellectual life in the crude 
state exemplified from a feminine standpoint. He had 
heard of and read of the strong-minded women of the 
western continent, but here was the first instance that 
had come within his view. Strange to say, he rather 
liked her. Her freedom was racy of the West, the 
breezy, broad, grassy, fertile West, where, as he 
imagined, the buffaloes ventured into the outskirts of 
the cities and where the men took their guns with 
them to church. Perhaps he did not imagine this, 
after all, but the spirit of it was in his thoughts. She 
seemed to him a fair exponent of society molded by 
such surrounding. He felt with aesthetic nicety how, 
turning from Miss Crabb’s harmless inquisitiveness, 
chic and crude vim, the lines of feminine force and 
beauty, by comparison, were graded through a thousand 
changes to reach such perfection as he perceived in 


88 


A T LO VE 'S EXTREMES. 


Miss Noble. He even found himself chivalrously 
attacking providence for showing such a difference in 
bestowing gifts upon the two girls. Why should Miss 
Crabb be so tall and angular and sallow, so lacking in 
the lines of grace, so sharp-voiced and ugly ? Why 
could she not have been rich, at least ? Poor girl ! 
she must carry so much while Miss Noble had beauty, 
health, grace, riches. 

The windows were open, allowing a gentle ripple of 
air through the room, charged with a woodsy freshness 
and that grateful balm always present on warm winter 
evenings in the south. Once when Mrs. Ransom leaned 
over Reynolds’ shoulder in performing some needed 
service, the loose end of a simple ribbon at her throat 
was blown lightly against his cheek and he caught the 
merest waft of violet perfume from the flowers on her 
breast. It was a slight thing, but it was to him the 
sweetest part of the dinner. 

Women appear to be little aware, as a rule, of the 
powerful influence they may wield over men by their 
sweet negative qualities as well as by their sweet posi- 
tive ones. For instance, the absence of a high harsh 
voice is next in value to the presence of a gentle and 
low one. A quiet, modest shyness of manner may be 
apparent from the total absence of any angular self- 
assertion rather than from the actual existence of the 
manner itself. Hence it is that most women who fancy 
themselves strikingly attractive to men, are really quite 


AN OLD PLANT A TION HOUSE. 


89 


the reverse, whilst it is often the case that the shy, sen- 
sitive woman who shrinks from self-display, wins 
admiration from the other sex without possessing any 
positive qualities especially charming. With the 
approach of Mrs. Ransom, a half-formed sense of satis- 
faction and subtle delight crept into Reynolds’ bosom, 
as if with the fragrance of the flowers she wore he 
breathed in a rarer and more precious element exhaled 
by her own flower-like nature. It is good for a man to be 
able to keep undulled his susceptibleness to such deli- 
cate influences, for thereby his nature enriches and 
sweetens itself. The crucial test of virility of the high- 
est order is that of its sensitiveness to the finest and 
purest demands of woman’s nature. The man’s soul 
has lost its morning freshness whose nerves do not 
tingle response to the least touch of the most ethereal 
breath of feminine sweetness, sincerity and beauty, and 
he is a brute who pauses to trace his susceptibility to 
some gross origin. 

“ It is quite charming to dine under such ministra- 
tion,” said Reynolds, while receiving some delicate 
dish from the steady little hand, “but I should ” 

“ No,” she interrupted with a grave, sweet smile, “do 
not say the rest. We think it quite fitting. My uncle 
at first refused to have any ladies included in the 
party ; but I insisted on having one or two of my 
dearest friends, and it is agreed that we are not to be 
considered as forming any part of the company.” 


9 o 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


She passed on, without giving him any chance for 
further words. Beresford, who sat opposite, begrudged 
every syllable she had uttered. 

All around the table the conversation was of field 
sports, adventures with dog and gun and prospects for 
the morrow’s shooting. General DeKay and Mr. 
Noble, as veterans, led the discussions, the banker 
giving fluent and graphic accounts of his experiences in 
the Maine and Michigan woods, the General respond- 
ing with racy bits of adventure in the game regions of 
Louisiana and Florida. Men who like field sports are, 
as a rule, earnest, healthy, vivacious fellows, fond of 
good cheer, with a decided leaning towards making the 
best of every thing. Such company as that around the 
board at the DeKay mansion, was, therefore, one to 
enjoy to the full the superb feast and all its attendant 
freedom from formality. The ladies retired when the 
cigars came in, leaving General DeKay and Mr. Noble 
to test some old brandy, while the younger men sipped 
a milder beverage, under the white wreaths of Cuban 
tobacco smoke. Two or three negro men-servants had 
quickly cleared the table, and now moved noiselessly 
about, or stood like white-aproned ebon statues, 
gazing thirstily upon the sparkling glasses. 

Meanwhile the ladies were having their own pleasant 
dinner in the breakfast room, Miss Crabb entertaining 
them with a vivid account of some of her experiences 
as a correspondent and editor. Her sketches had a 


AN OLD PLANTA TION HOUSE. 91 

breadth and freedom, all the more fascinating to the 
Southern part of her audience, on account of the 
impressions they gave of a field of woman’s labor 
unknown in the dreamy land of cotton and sugar- 
cane, magnolias and mocking-birds. Miss Crabb was 
very earnest and sincere, deeply impressed with the 
importance and influence of her profession, and her 
straight forward manner of talking, along with a per- 
fectly evident good-heartedness, won a peculiarly 
qualified admiration and respect from the majority of 
her listeners. Her effect with Miss Noble was quite 
different. The shrewd, wide-awake Northern girl knew 
very well how purely a matter of business Miss Crabb 
was making of the whole affair, and how like a dissect- 
ing-knife her pen would be. She sympathized with the 
young journalist, however, and silently hoped that she 
might make a success of her bold effort to penetrate to 
the inner heart of this old, exclusive Southern social 
circle, the picturesque charm of which seemed to hover 
like an atmosphere in the quaint, dingy, airy room. 

All the doors and windows were open and the 
night breathed through the house, bearing the pun- 
gency of the men’s tobacco in faint traces to the 
breakfast room, and presently the sound of a banjo 
along with the mellow, barbaric voice of a negro 
singer, filled the place. There was almost uproarious 
applause from many manly mouths. Uncle Mono was 
ending up the feast with his favorite song: 


92 


AT LOVE’S EXTREMES. 


“ De raccoon am a cunnin’ ting, 

He rammel in de dahk, 

Wid miffin' 'tall fo’ to 'stu’b he mind, 

Tell he yer my 'coon-dog bahk ! " 

He was a jolly-faced, jet black old fellow, with a 
great shock of grizzly wool on his head, a comically 
flexible mouth, and dusky eyes that danced to the 
rapid time of his music. 

It was the merest chance that suggested Uncle 
Mono and his banjo, but if it had been pre-arranged, 
as in a play, that his two or three humorous songs 
and his one pathetic love-ditty should close the even- 
ing’s festivities, it would have been in accord with 
the highest art. The almost rude yet wholly fascinat- 
ing carvings on the time-stained panels of the dining- 
room, seemed to especially favor the effect of such 
lyrical savageness and grotesquerie. 

The impression upon Moreton’s mind was strange, 
almost weird. When all was over and he was alone 
in his room, he leaned back in a chair, with his feet 
thrust out of the open window, and gazed into the soft 
sky with a haunting sense of how suddenly and far he 
had been removed from the glare and show and polite 
tumult of his own world. It was all very fascinating, 
this isolation and decay, these soft-tongued women, 
these knightly, half-grave, half-hilarious men, this 
strain of music from Dahomey. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


WITH DOG AND GUN. 

“A westerly wind and a cloudy sky, 

Proclaim it a hunting morning,” 

S ANG some one of the merry sportsmen, as the dogs 
were loosed in a gently rolling field, where, on one 
hand, the stiff, straggling rows of dry cotton stalks ran 
down to the river bank, and on the other a dreary fal- 
low plat, overgrown with yellow sedge and clumps of 
bushes, spread away to a dense wood. There was, in 
fact, a gentle breeze from the west, and a thin veil 
of fleece clouds covered, the sky. The morning 
appeared propitious, every one was in high spirits. 

The ladies, in an ample spring wagon, had been 
driven to an elevated point whence they could have a 
sweeping view of the grounds to be shot over. A 
field glass or two had been furnished them, so that dis- 
tance need not trouble their observations. 

The men, in a long line and distant from each other 
not less than twenty yards, walked slowly with the 
dogs running to and fro ahead of them. 

The morning was balmy and warm, but not hot, 
with just a hint of dampness in the air. Along the 


94 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


river a low-hanging line of gray fog was slowly fading 
away. 

The ladies alighted from the wagon, with the help 
of the colored driver, and disposed themselves in pic- 
turesque attitudes, their broad hats thrown back and 
the wind fluttering their ribbons. Miss Noble and 
Miss Crabb were the most interested, the latter 
making swift notes in a little red book. 

Reynolds had quite forgotten his promise to Miss 
Noble about teaching her how to shoot. He had, in 
fact, forgotten her as well. Moreton was on one side of 
him, Beresford on the other. He felt the responsibility 
of having to shoot between too such marksmen ; but 
he was also keenly alive to the opportunity it would 
give him for a display of his finest abilities as a sports- 
man. He had resolved to lead the field if possible and 
he could scarcely have told why. Mrs. Ransom had 
said something just before starting about Beresford 
being considered the best shot present. This may have 
served as a stimulus. She had not meant to be over- 
heard by any gentleman of the party, her words being 
for Miss Crabb’s ear ; but Reynolds did hear. Her voice 
had a way of getting to him, as if it sought him of its 
own account. It was a very sweet and musical voice, 
suggesting a reserve of strength and depth, with just a 
suspicion in it of that vague sadness which lurked in 
her face. 

Some hampers containing luncheon had been 


WITH DOG AND GUN. 


95 


deposited under a tree by a little spring near where the 
ladies were posted, and here, at the sound of a horn 
blown by the negro attendant, all were to come at high 
noon. 

The shooting began early, the first birds being pointed 
by one of General DeKay’s dogs. It was a fine strong 
bevy, flushed in a weedy swale. Mr. Noble and the 
General both fired right and left, getting but one bird 
each. The dogs dropped to shot and the game, well 
scattered, was marked down in some low sedge two 
hundred yards further on. Two of the dogs were now 
sent to retrieve the dead birds, which was scarcely done 
when another covey was flushed by some of the party, 
the birds taking almost the same flight as the first. 
This was enough to warm the blood in any sportsman’s 
veins. The dogs fairly trembled with eagerness. The 
line was lengthened, the shooters getting further apart 
so as to cover a wide territory. Beresford’s pointer 
was first to stand, Reynolds’ setter, a noble dog, 
promptly backing, and two birds were flushed. 
It was a fine chance for a double shot, but Beres- 
ford missed with his first barrel and killed with his 
second. Reynolds cut down the missed bird with his 
right and killed another that flushed in front of him 
with his left. The shooting was now begun in earnest, 
Beresford making a very difficult double a few steps 
farther on, whilst Moreton distinguished himself by 
three straight misses. General DeKay and Mr. Noble 


9 6 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 

were apparently the most excited men in the field. The 
banker was too ready, shooting as soon as his bird 
showed above cover, and the General was rather slow, 
poking his gun after his game until it had flown out of 
certain range. 

As fresh bevies were flushed and the birds scattered 
themselves over a wide area, the sportsmen became 
separated, or hunted in twos and threes. 

Miss Noble and Miss Crabb watched this eager skirm- 
ish line through their glasses, keeping up, meantime, a 
running discussion of the incidents as they occurred, 
with true feminine lapses, now and then, into criticism 
of whatever chanced to offend their notions of how a 
shoot should be conducted. 

“ I hope Mr. Reynolds will get outrageously beaten,” 
exclaimed Miss Noble, “ I really do.” 

“ Why ? ” asked the editor. 

“ Because I do,” was the response so perfectly intel- 
ligible and satisfactory to all women. 

“ Oh,” said Miss Crabb, “ you have a grudge, have 
you ? ” 

“ He promised me he would teach me how to shoot,” 
Cordelia laughingly responded, “and, like all men, he 
has not kept his word.” 

“There! did you see that?” cried Miss Crabb still 
intently surveying the distant shooters. 

“ No, what was it ? ” 

“Mr. Reynolds killed a bird that Mr. Beresford had 


WITH DOG AND GUN. 


97 


missed and then turned and killed one that the English 
gentleman — what’s his name ? — had failed on ! It was 
lovely — I like that ! ” 

“ Mr. Moreton appears not to be having good luck,” 
said Cordelia, “ but I fancy he’s quite as good a shot 
as any of them. My father says that any one will have 
unlucky days, no matter how good a shot he may be.” 

“ Mr. Reynolds hasn’t missed yet, so far as I have 
observed,” said Miss Crabb. “ There went down two 
more birds before his gun. I think he has the be^t dog 
of any of them : it seems to know just what he 
wants.” 

“How is my brother succeeding?” inquired Miss 
Beresford from her seat on a wagon-cushion which she 
had laid on the ground and covered with a gay shawl. 

“ Very finely, indeed,” was Miss Crabb’s ready re- 
sponse. “The honors seem to lie between him and 
Mr. Reynolds. They easily lead the rest.” 

“ My brother never has been beaten, I believe,” Miss 
Beresford went on. “ He is said to be the best shot in 
the state.” 

“ Begging your pardon,” Miss Crabb responded, “ it 
really looks as if Mr. Reynolds would beat ; he hasn’t 
missed a shot yet, and I don’t think he’s going to.” 

Miss Beresford smiled rather incredulously, as if her 
faith in her brother’s superiority could not so easily 
be shaken. 

“ But they are all getting so far away that I can not 


9 8 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


be sure any longer,” continued the observant editor in 
an apologizing tone. 

Mrs. Ransom was seated some distance apart from 
the rest, busying herself with pinning a wreath of bay 
leaves from material gathered off some small trees by 
the spring. 

The firing, scattered far and wide, came to the ears 
of these listeners, softened down to a mere desultory 
booming, with now and then the quick repetition that 
told of a double shot. Even Miss Crabb ceased her 
efforts to follow the course of the merry sportsmen. 
She fell to work at her note-book as if venting a bitter 
spite upon it and for a time her tongue rested from its 
almost incessant labors. 

Cordelia went to where Mrs. Ransom was busy with 
the bay leaves and sat down on the dry ground beside 
her. 

“ A victor’s crown,” she said gayly. “ So you are 
going to reward the winner? ” 

“ Oh no, I have been playing little girl. When I 
was a child I used to make wreaths like this, only I 
have lost the ready knack I had then.” 

“ It’s such a delightful thing to be a little girl,” said 
Cordelia, impulsively laying her hand on Mrs. Ran- 
som’s arm and fixing her frank eyes upon her face. 
“ I wish I could have always staid about thirteen — 
that’s the golden age, I think, don’t you ? ” 

“ I was a very happy little girl,” replied Mrs. Ran- 


WITH DOG AND GUN. 


99 


som. The evasiveness in her voice and the far away 
look that came for a moment into her large blue eyes, 
were not observed by Cordelia, who, with a buoyant, 
retrospective ring in her voice, exclaimed — 

“ Oh, so was I, ever so happy. There never was any 
one who had so delightful a time. It was so easy to be 
happy then.” 

“You don’t look very sad, even now,” said Mrs. Ran- 
som, wholly recovering her sweet, half-sad smile. 

Cordelia laughed merrily. 

“ One can’t always tell what a world of trouble a face 
like mine may mask,” she replied in her lightest way, 
but it gave her a real pang the next moment, recollect- 
ing Mrs. Ransom’s bitter experience. She picked up 
the wreath, which was now finished, and put it on her 
head. It gave to her plump, joyous face an air so free, 
fresh and almost rustic, that one might have mistaken 
her for a Western farmer’s daughter. Mrs. Ransom 
looked at her for a moment, and then on a sudden im- 
pulse, put a hand on either glowing cheek, and drawing 
her forward, kissed her again and again. 

“ I hope your dear, sweet face will never be more of 
a mask than it is now,” she said. “ You blush as if my 
kiss had been — — ” 

“ Had been sour ! ” interrupted Cordelia with a ring- 
ing laugh. 

Meantime the men were having what is called glo- 
rious sport. The dogs, now thoroughly warmed with 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


1 66 

their work, were behaving their best. It was a pleasing 
thing to see them consciously competing with each 
other, carefully beating back and forth in front of their 
masters, allowing no spot of ground to go unexamined, 
promptly standing or backing or dropping to shot, 
eagerly watching each other’s movements and taking 
quick advantage of every favoring accident of ground- 
surface or of cover. Each dog took evident delight in 
seeing a bird, flushed from his point, killed by his mas- 
ter. A missed quail brought as much chagrin to dog as 
to sportsman. 

Some of the party, in following the flight of the 
bevies, reached a country cut up by shallow ravines 
and gulches leading down to the river and filled with a 
dense tangle of small trees and matted vines. Here 
the shooting was quite difficult and exciting, and both 
sportsmen and dogs were taxed to the utmost of their 
skill ; for it was impossible to know where a bird would 
flush or what direction its flight would take. Mr. Noble 
was peculiarly suited to this sort of thing. He was in 
his element where the cover was thickest and the swift- 
est action required. He displayed his nimbleness and 
readiness to good effect snap-shooting, as the birds 
whirred out of the dense cover to turn into it again, 
showing themselves for the merest point of time. He 
and Reynolds chanced to get together towards noon in 
a place where to kill -a bird required almost electrical 
quickness. Reynolds rarely refused a shot and always 


WITH DOG AND GUN. ioi 

killed. His movements did not appear surprisingly 
swift, but the gun always got to his shoulder in time. 
He did not snap-shoot, as the word goes : his aim was 
obtained with the promptness, celerity and certainty of 
a mechanical effect. Only four times during the sport 
did he fail to bring down his game, and every bird of 
fifty shot at was hit. But as a true sportsman, he was 
ready to yield the palm to the highest achievement, and 
while he felt a secret satisfaction in knowing that he 
had beaten Beresford, he took even keener pleasure in 
the victory of his dog. The noble animal had per- 
formed a feat in the presence of Beresford, Mr. Noble, 
Moreton and General DeKay, that proved him a king 
of dogs. 

“I'll give you a thousand dollars cash for him!” 
exclaimed the banker excitedly. 

The entire party broke forth with hearty applause. 

It came about as follows : The dog had been sent 
into some weeds by Moreton to retrieve a dead bird, 
which he promptly did. It was as he was returning, 
with the game in his mouth, and leaping clear above the 
weed-tops, as was his habit, that he suddenly, at the 
highest point of a bound, turned his head half about, 
and stiffened himself in mid-air, on the scent of another 
bird. He struck the ground standing staunchly, his 
eyes fixed, his feet slightly spread, his back and tail on 
a line. The sportsmen could hardly believe it a genu- 
ine point ; but when the bird was flushed and killed, 


102 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


they stood for a moment looking at the sensitive thor- 
ough-bred, with that flawless admiration which men 
reserve for beautiful women and sure-nosed dogs ; then 
they all applauded. 

Beresford felt defeated at every point, and in his 
heart a premonition of failure began to ferment. A 
few days ago he had met Agnes Ransom at his father’s 
house in Montgomery, and had fallen a prey to her 
gentle voice and grave, sweet face. Since then she 
had been constantly in his mind, her influence growing 
upon him by force of memory, some new grace adding 
itself to the impression, as each hour recalled a word, 
a smile or a glance unconsciously treasured by him. 
Now it all seemed slipping away. It is one of the most 
natural of mental operations, this swift reaching for- 
ward to grasp an evil before it is more than vaguely 
threatened. We call it foreboding : it may be the last 
refinement of logic. Beresford kept to himself the rest 
of the morning, rather gloomily borrowing of the 
future. Something told him that Agnes Ransom and 
Reynolds were going to be lovers. His enthusiasm 
flagged and he shot with less than his usual care. On 
the contrary, Reynolds seemed to be attended by the 
god of good luck ; every chance seemed to favor him. 
His self-confidenee never once deserted him. He too 
was borrowing of the future, and what he borrowed was 
very sweet. Deep in his heart nestled the precious 
belief that Mrs. Ransom had involuntarily — nay, uncon- 


WITH DOG AND GUN. 


103 


sciously — responded to his interest in her. This gave 
him nerve and alertness and force. When he would 
flush a bird, the loud hum of its wings and the bullet- 
like rapidity of its flight did not disturb his thought or 
his vision. He threw up his gun with a promptness and 
self-possession that insured a perfect aim. When he 
fired the result was a thoroughly fine, clean shot, stop- 
ping the game dead in mid-air, so that it fell without a 
flutter. Yet all the time his dream went on. 

At about half-past twelve the horn blew loud and 
long from the place where the ladies had been sta- 
tioned with the luncheon. Most of the shooters were 
loth to leave off the exciting sport, even though the 
stirrings of hunger began to be importunate. The 
mellow notes of invitation fancifully executed by the 
negro “bugler” had nothing very insistent in them. 
It was a long while before the party began to straggle 
back. Reynolds was first to reach the little grove 
above the spring near where the ladies had been wait- 
ing and watching. He strode swiftly along with his 
gun across his shoulder, his dogs following at his heels. 
A small, fancifully twisted tuft of mistletoe that he bore 
in his left hand was heavy with milk-white berries and 
waxen green leaves. His broad-brimmed hat was far 
back on his head, leaving his swarthy face unshaded. 
He had almost touched Mrs. Ransom before he saw 
her where she sat under a little pine tree with her hands 
listlessly crossed in her lap, her head uncovered and her 


104 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


dark hair gleaming in strong contrast with the almost 
colorless fairness of her face. He started perceptibly 
on discovering her, but a smile came over his face, as he 
bowed and said : 

“ A charmingly airy place you have : may I join you ? 
I am really quite tired.” 

“ Certainly, there’s ample room,” she half-hesitatingly 
replied, a little color slowly warming her cheeks, “but I 
believe the luncheon is spread and you must be hungry.” 

“ No, I’d rather rest. The party is scattered in every 
direction ; it will be some time before all are in. 
What a wide view from here — could you see us shoot- 
ing?” 

“Yes, that is MissCrabb and Miss Noble could — but 
really I did not look. It frightens me to see a gun 
fired. It is a silly weakness that I can’t overcome.” 

He had thrown aside upon the ground his old-fash- 
ioned game-bag stuffed with the dead birds, and laid 
his gun across it. He sat down a little way from her, 
in a half-reclining position, resting the weight of his 
heavy shoulders on one elbow. 

“ I never before saw quails so numerous, I believe,” 
he said, twirling the spray of mistletoe and looking at 
his favorite dog which had crouched panting before 
him. “ We have had a fine morning’s shoot.” 

“ I am very glad. My uncle would have been so dis- 
appointed if you had failed to find birds,” she responded, 
her voice, so sweet, so peculiarly artless and tender. 


WITH DOG AND GUN. 


105 

“ He is a fervent sportsman,” she continued, “and 
sets great store by his annual shooting party. Last 
year the rain interfered and he was terribly put out 
about it.” 

“ He certainly knows how to manage an affair like 
this,” Reynolds said. “ I never saw any thing so per- 
fectly planned and executed. We found the birds at 
once and have been shooting ever since. Nothing 
could have been better.” 

He carelessly took up her hat, which lay within easy 
reach of him, and thrust the stem of the mistletoe 
spray behind the broad band of ribbon that encircled 
the crown. It was a cold looking cluster. 

“ Not a bad bit of decoration, is it?” he smilingly 
inquired. “ It is the most peculiar and beautiful sprig 
of mistletoe I ever saw. See how the smaller stems 
have grown around each other in fanciful twists.” 

She made a quick, suddenly-arrested movement, as 
if to snatch away the frigid-looking winter cluster, then 
glancing up into his face, simply said: 

“ The hat is not of a kind to bear much embellish- 
ment.” 

He appeared not to hear her. In fact he did not 
hear her, or if he did it was merely her voice, not her 
words. The relaxation from the physical exercise and 
mental excitement of the sport was so sweetly supple- 
mented by the influence of Mrs. Ransom’s gentle 
presence that he fell into a mood as dreamy and 


106 AT LOVE’S EX TREMES. 

tender as the air and sunshine around him. Some 
vague stimulus was affecting his nerves and blood, 
suffusing his brain with a happiness as precious as it 
was undefinable. Like the effect of rare wine, this 
sudden mood seemed to be connected in some way 
with evil, as if it were too delicious not to have some 
after-taste of the hidden poison it contained. He 
knew and he did not know what it was that, like a 
skulking serpent, shadowy and hideously menacing on 
account of its uncertain proportions as well as on 
account of its venomous nature, darted now and again 
through his dream. Mrs. Ransom, as if in some way 
touched with the subtile essence of his mood, looked 
at him and felt a little premonition of some new 
experience in store for her. At this moment she and 
Reynolds were as detached from all the rest of the 
world as if they had been the only inhabitants of an 
undiscovered island. They were aware of this and for 
a few moments reveled in the fascination of the experi- 
ence. Somewhere in the conscience of each an ill- 
defined protest against the future stirred uneasily. 

Reynolds was first to recover himself. Clearing 
his mind, as if with a wave of the hand, he held the hat 
towards her with a careless movement. 

“ Put it on and let me see how it will look,” he said. 
“ I pride myself in my ability to trim hats.” 

If she had a mind to be offended she quickly changed. 
His smile was so frank and his eyes so bold and honest 


WITH DOG AND GUN. 


07 


that it was impossible for her to suspect him or to 
refuse his light request. But she could not keep a pink 
flush from rising into her cheeks, and her lips glowed 
like cherries. He looked calmly at her for a moment, 
then in a perfectly earnest way said : 

“ I like it, it becomes you : please let it stay, will you ? 
You are lovely when you look like that.” 

His eyes were fixed upon hers with a deep and ten- 
der meaning. Despite herself her heart leaped vio- 
lently and she grew pale. In her confusion she arose. 
He saw the change come over her face and sprang 
hastily to his feet. 

“ I hope I have not offended you, you are not ” 

he earnestly began. 

She interrupted him with a little laugh. 

“ Nothing so serious as that,” she lightly exclaimed, 
waving one fair hand. “ It is time for us to be looking 
after the luncheon.” 

She stooped and patted the head of one of the dogs. 
The rest of the sportsmen came straggling up the incline 
from the fields, one of them singing a gay hunting carol. 

Reynolds picked up his bag and gun. There was a 
glow in his eyes and a hot tingle in his veins. He 
looked at the lithe, graceful form, and sweet, earnest 
face of the young woman, as at an inestimable treasure. 
The flush had returned to her cheeks and lips, though 
she had struggled hard to overcome this incomprehen- 
sible emotion. 


io8 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


“ Why can’t we stay here a little longer?” he asked, 
almost with vehemence. “ I was enjoying it so much. 
There’s no dire necessity for going, just at this moment, 
is there ? ” 

She fixed her eyes on his for a second, then lowered 
them and turned half away. It was a mere glance, a 
flash, but it was an involuntary confession that she 
understood his feelings and did not dare to give them 
opportunity. What further meaning it conveyed he 
could only wish he knew. 

“ Yonder is uncle,” she murmured. “ Poor old man, I 
know he’s tired ! ” and she almost ran to meet General 
DeKay. 

Reynolds watched her go tripping down the gentle 
slope, through the stunted wire grass and tufts of sedge, 
wearing on her hat his spray of mistletoe. She looked 
like a mere girl, slim and svelt, whose movements were 
as light and free as the wind. She had won over his 
dog and it trotted away beside her, looking up into her 
face. He felt his heart throbbing heavily, and some- 
thing like a tender mist gathered in his eyes. An 
almost uncontrollable desire to go swiftly after her and 
clasp her in his arms took possession of him. Would 
he ever get so near her again? Would she ever again 
give him a look like that which was now pictured so 
vividly in his memory? Ah, those serious, tender, 
earnest eyes, that low, gentle, haunting voice ! Would 
those sweet, half-sad lips ever meet his with a kiss of 


WITH DOG AND GUN . 109 

unquenchable love? He stood there actually trem- 
bling with the stress of his suddenly-generated emo- 
tions, an underglow of passion showing in his bronzed 
face. 


CHAPTER IX. 


LUNCHEON AL FRESCO. 

I T is one of the distinctive features of life in our 
Southern States, this keen pursuit and enjoyment 
of field sports. The climate favors every thing of the 
sort, and the tastes of the people, as well as the leisure 
which has always been their inheritance, keep alive a 
zest for out-door accomplishments, amongst which 
shooting is accorded the chief place. It has sometimes 
been hinted that, so zealous are they in this direction, 
if small game chances to be scarce, they will on occa- 
sion shoot at each other, in order not to fail of diligent 
practice ; but no man who has ever enjoyed the cordial 
hospitality and generous freedom of a low-country 
plantation in the quail season, will be likely to recall 
any but the charmingest recollections of the occasion. 
The open season for small game comes there in the 
most delightful part of the year, when to be out of 
doors is, of itself, as exhilarating as a surf-bath in sum- 
mer. From the old, wide-winged, airy plantation 
house and its profuse cheer and comfort, one goes forth 
into fields, basking in more than Indian-summer dreami- 
ness and warmth. The air is fresh and pungent, the 


LUNCHEON AL FRESCO. 


hi 


ground is dry, the prospect is liberal and inviting. 
There is no sense of limitation to the rambler’s opera- 
tions ; he feels that, like the poet’s brook, he can go on 
forever. 

By gentlemen of robust tastes, such entertainment as 
that afforded by General DeKay’s shooting-party is of 
a kind greatly enjoyed and rarely obtainable. The 
game had been carefully preserved and the shooting 
area was practically unlimited, which, without the aid 
of perfect weather and a rare hospitality, would have 
made the mere liberty to shoot joy enough for the 
enthusiastic sportsmen. But General DeKay and his 
wife knew how to entertain in that off-hand, natural 
way which is peculiarly gratifying to men bent on such 
vigorous pleasures as field-sports give. Substantial 
viands, good wine, fine tobacco and freedom from con- 
ventional absurdities around the board were supple- 
mented by such cordial watchfulness of their needs as 
made the guests feel “at home ” indeed. 

The luncheon spread on a smooth plat by the spring 
and presided over by Mrs. Ransom was discussed in 
no mincing mood by the quail-shooters, while they 
talked over the excellent sport of the morning with 
frequent eulogies of their host’s superior manner of 
planning and directing it. 

Reynolds’ shooting was heartily praised, and Ruby, 
his dog, got such eloquent tributes as never before fell 
to an unsuspecting setter. Miss Crabb could not 


1 1 2 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


refrain from openly making notes, nor could she repress 
a desire to ask questions. She was embarrassed with 
the riches of material that fell about her. She had vis- 
ions of a letter that should make both her and her 
paper famous. 

Physically as well as mentally, Miss Crabb was in 
strong contrast with the rest of the company ; her 
voice, too, her pronunciation, her method of intona- 
tion, and, indeed, all the salients of her personality, 
cut with an almost barbaric eclat through this smooth 
social atmosphere. At every turn she made herself 
felt as a foreign quantity. She was obviously busy ; 
she had a purpose, an ulterior object ; she was plying 
a trade, and a trade, by the way, of which she was very 
proud. So nearly as words may express it, she was 
pleasingly disagreeable. Her companions were aware 
that she aroused in them a dual sentiment wherein 
pity was scarcely separated from a low grade of 
admiration. That she was a novice in newspaper work 
could be detected by the most unskillful observer, and 
like all novices, she was an enthusiast. Evidently she 
regarded gathering notes as the chief purpose of life 
for which she would make any sacrifice. She was 
nervous and fussy, quick, keen, ready, anxious to 
make every thing serve her a turn. Hearing the 
gentlemen discussing the interesting features of the 
morning’s sport, she plied them with such a volley of 
questions as taxed their agility to answer. Meantime 


LUNCHEON AL FRESCO . 


”3 


her pencil danced recklessly over the pages of the 
little red book. The prospect of doing something 
unique intoxicated her and made her enunciation 
still more rapid. Reynolds’ shooting and the splendid 
achievement of his dog were to be the chief points of 
her report and she spared no pains to get the details 
in full. She looked upon men and men’s doings as of 
much more importance and interest than women and 
women’s acts ; she was not quite sure that even dogs 
were not rated by the world as rather more noticeable 
than women. Secretly she harbored an ambition to 
show the world what a woman could do if once she 
had got clear of the meshes of feminine restraints. 
Why shouldn’t she report a quail-shoot just as well as 
a man ? At all events, she was bound to try, and so 
she went nimbly at the task. 

“It’s unusual, isn’t it?” she inquired of Mr. Tom 
Boardman, a merry youth just graduated from a Ten- 
nessee college, and brim full of sport-lingo, “ It’s unus- 
ual, isn’t it, for a dog to stiffen in the air on a point 
with a bird in its mouth ? ” 

She said this all so glibly and earnestly, with a 
slight sideways turn of her head, that the youth 
came near choking over his effort to smother a wild 
laugh. 

“ Very unusual,” he answered in a suffering tone, 
“ very.” 

She made some rapid notes in the red book. Then 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


114 

looking up, with the end of the pencil against her teeth, 
said : 

“ And he struck the ground, stanch on his nose, at 
a half-turn ; is that right ? ” 

Mr. Tom Boardman’s eyes suddenly widened and 
then his nerve failed him. He laughed uproariously 
in spite of himself ; but to his great relief Miss Crabb 
did not take offense. She joined him quite heartily in 
his merriment at her own expense. 

“It's very interesting,” she added, “and I must get 
it right. Give it to me slowly in technical language, 
so that I can take it down. I guess I got some of the 
terms mixed — absurdly, too, didn't I ? " * 

He caught a glimpse, so to speak, of the girl’s charm- 
ing kindness of heart and evident sincerity of purpose, 
which instantly won upon him. He changed without 
appearing to change and took great pains to give her the 
information she desired, volunteering besides to detail a 
number of the most striking incidents of the morning. 

“ Why shouldn’t you try writing a novel and weave 
into it something of this sort ?” he asked. “ It seems 
to me that you might make a lively story of such 
materials as you are gathering.” 

“And if I should write one,” she answered, her face 
growing serious, “ I couldn’t get it printed.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Oh, the publishers don’t want provincial stories, 
they are not in vogue now.” 


LUNCHEON AL FRESCO. 


1X 5 

“ Ah, well, but make it so fresh and true to life and 
so breezy and interesting generally, that the publishers 
couldn’t refuse. I know you could.” 

“ That’s a kind compliment, but I’m too well posted 
to be carried away. A novel, now-a-days, must be 
what they call analytical, a fine-spun exemplification of 
an author’s power to lay bare the motives of his char- 
acters in doing what they do. Plots are abolished, 
stories ignored.” 

“ But I like stories, genuine love-stories, with a smack 
of adventure and lots of incidents,” he earnestly 
exclaimed. “ What’s the interest in all this long- 
drawn, tedious nonsense about a common-place Ameri- 
can young woman’s reasons for refusing an English 
nobleman, or about why a European patrician of doubt- 
ful morals could not condescend to marry a good, free, 
sweet American girl ? ” 

Miss Crabb smiled and shook her head. 

“ But the critics have decided against you, and what 
are you going to do about it? I, too, like stories, and 
so, I think, does almost every body, but they are out of 
fashion. All the thrifty writers go in for the analytical 
novel now. It don’t make much difference what your 
characters do, so that you are able to dissect their 
motives for so doing.” 

She sighed regretfully as she ended, as if the subject 
had awakened sad memories. 

“Well, if I were a critic,” said he, with a light laugh, 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


TI 6 

“ I’d give your story a genuine indorsement of author- 
ity.” 

“ No, you wouldn’t,” she responded. “ You’re a man 
and you’d do as the rest. You’d say: Poor girl, she’d 
better be washing dishes or teaching school.” 

Boardman laughed. 

Beresford saw the mistletoe spray in Mrs. Ransom’s 
hat, and, not dreaming of any one else than herself hav- 
ing put it there, asked where she had got it. 

“ Mr. Reynolds brought it from somewhere in his 
rambles this morning,” she said. She took off her hat 
and plucked out the sprig, but after hesitating a 
moment, put it back again. 

Beresford received the blow bravely, and, like the 
true gentleman that he was, accepted the situation 
without apparent embarrassment. Love at first sight 
is a fruit of warm climates, and passionate souls seize 
it rapturously ; but love, even under a Southern sky, 
sometimes turns to ashes before the swiftest lips may 
reach it. 

“ Mr. Reynolds has won the victory to-day,” he said, 
“ and under the ancient rules has the right to choose 
where he will have the crown rest. You wear it like a 
queen.” 

There was something behind his light manner and 
lighter words that touched her. She did not rightly 
construe him, guessing that he was simply striving to 
hide the chagrin of his first defeat in the field. 


LUNCHEON AL FRESCO. 


117 


“ Victor to-day, vanquished to-morrow,” was her 
quick rejoinder; “there is a good deal of mere chance 
in such things, I suppose. No doubt to-day was one of 
your unlucky days.” 

“ Yes, but I must admit that I never have equaled 
Mr. Reynolds’ score of this morning, so I can not get 
any comfort out of your gracious suggestion,” he 
frankly exclaimed. “He is a better shot than I — the 
best I ever saw.” 

“ My uncle says so too,” she responded, “ and he is 
enthusiastic about the dog, the one that did the fine act.” 

“ Superb, superb ! ” he rejoined with emphasis. “ I 
would put that dog against the whole world of dogs.” 
He found a sort of comfort in praising his rival and his 
rival’s dog. It was a species of self-torture that dead- 
ened for the time the pain of his defeat. 

Miss Beresford, who was so situated that she could 
not avoid hearing this conversation, glanced at her 
brother with a repressed resentment in her eyes. She 
felt that he was not doing himself justice; that he was, 
in fact, failing to assert himself as a true Beresford, a 
name that had never before tamely accepted and 
acknowledged defeat. 

“ Give me your score, Mr. Beresford, please,” said 
Miss Crabb, coming forward with her book and pencil. 

“ Thirty-three,” he promptly answered. His sister’s 
face flushed with anger. She turned to him and said 
under her breath : 


1 1 8 AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 

“ She shall not do that — she shall not publish 
it!” 

“ Pshaw ! ” he almost whispered, “ don’t allow your- 
self to show any feeling. Don’t make a scene. Can’t 
you feel the delicacy of my situation ? Be quiet, 
there’s a good girl.” 

Miss Crabb had hurried away to where Reynolds was 
seated. She was intent upon getting the precise status 
of things. 

“ Oh, you are way ahead,” she exclaimed, in her clear 
high tones. Then she seized the wreath of bay leaves 
twined by Mrs. Ransom and forthwith laid it upon his 
head. 

“To the victor belongs the crown !” she added, 
laughing merrily. “ See, Mrs. Ransom, I’ve put your 
handiwork to noble use ! ” 

She was so innocently playful in her manner, that no 
one could deem her act a rude one. It seemed almost 
fitting, at least permissible, in view of the freedom of 
this little out-door convocation. But Reynolds lightly 
doffed the circlet. 

“ I am too earnest a democrat to wear a crown of any 
sort with due dignity,” he laughingly said ; “ besides,” 
he added, “ my dog is the hero, not I.” 

“ Truth, every word of it!” cried Moreton, balanc- 
ing a glass of wine on the tips of his fingers. “ Your 
tastes are most commendably plebeian and proper. If 
Miss Crabb will but let me describe your mountain 


LUNCHEON AL FRESCO. 


119 

hermitage she can fully appreciate your sturdy democ- 
racy. 

“ Don't do that, Moreton, if you love me ; my cabin 
is my castle and my sanctuary,” Reynolds answered in 
mock earnestness. 

It was an unlucky turn in the thoughtless conversa- 
tion, for it sent a current of uneasiness through the 
mind of Reynolds that made it very hard for him to 
keep up his spirits to the level of the occasion. The 
mere mention of those six years of mountain seclusion 
was enough to awaken a whole world of distressing 
memories. Things known only to himself came up to 
darken his mind. Miss Crabb’s restless energy and 
journalistic enterprise would not, however, allow him 
long to grope among his carefully hidden secrets. 

“ Now a thought strikes me,” she exclaimed, as if 
addressing the entire company ; “ can any one here 
sketch the least bit in the world ? What a fresh and 
charming illustrated paper the material I am collecting 
would make for one of the magazines, if I could get 
some truthful and spirited sketches from which an illus- 
trator could take his cue ! ” She rolled the end of her 
pencil in her mouth and awaited an answer. 

“ Mr. Reynolds is an artist,” said Moreton with a 
sidelong glance at his friend. 

“Oh, I’m so glad! Won't you help me, Mr. Rey- 
nolds? Just a half dozen or so of striking local tran- 
scripts — a view of General DeKay’s house, a scene 


120 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


or two from the quail shoot, some character studies 
and " 

“You overwhelm me,” said Reynolds, his face actu- 
ally showing the truth of his assertion. “ I never could 
trust myself to undertake such a commission ; and 
besides,” he added with a tone of suddenly discovered 
relief, “ I have no sketching materials with me.” 

Miss Crabb became thoughtful, tapping her forehead 
with the back of her note-book. Mrs. Ransom came 
to the rescue with a request for her to help pass coffee 
to the gentlemen. The negro attendant had brewed a 
pot of Java, the aromatic fragrance of which had been 
for some minutes on the air. 

It would, indeed, have been worth while for an artist 
to have caught the impression of the scene just then. 
The men carelessly standing or sitting, with the young 
women ministering and the dogs lounging idly around 
the outskirts of the group ; the soft atmosphere, the 
broad, airy landscape with the green-fringed silvery 
river winding through the middle distance, the slum- 
berous quietude and the deep, dark forest rising yonder 
like a wall. 

After coffee the gentlemen went aside to light pipes 
and cigars. The afternoon was well advanced before 
General DeKay proposed going to the field again. 
Now and then a quail had been heard whistling in the 
distance that far-reaching, energetic call of a straggler 
to his scattered companions. A momentarily freshen- 


LUNCHEON AL FRESCO. 


121 


ing breeze was fast brushing from the sky the film of 
fleece clouds. 

The ladies voted that they were satisfied with what 
they had seen, wished the sportsmen a merry afternoon 
and were driven back across the rustling sedge fields to 
the old mansion. 

Reynolds turned, after he had walked some distance, 
and looked back. The wagon containing the ladies 
was slowly trundling over a little swell in the field. 
Mrs. Ransom’s face was, he thought, turned toward 
him. Involuntarily he took off his hat and waved it in 
the air. Then he saw, or imagined he saw, something 
white flutter a response from the group in the wagon. 
This little incident cost him quite dear, for he failed to 
note, on turning about, that his dogs had come to a 
stand in the weeds near by. A quail sprang up from 
his very toes and whirred away quartering to his right, 
going like a bullet. He fired and missed. Moreton 
took the bird on a cross shot, stopping it beautifully. 

Reynolds’ dogs looked at him with a sneaking leer 
in their eyes, as if they felt the disgrace of their mas- 
ter. 

“ That’s one debt paid ! ” Moreton cried. “ Credit 
me, will you? ” 

Reynolds felt no interest in the sport. His vision 
was introverted, his ears were full of sweet sounds, his 
heart was beating time to the melody of his day-dream. 
He went down by the river and lay upon an old mossy 


122 


AT LOVE' S EXTREMES. 


drift log, against one end of which the light current 
rippled sweetly. There was a windy rustle in the reeds 
and a broad, washing murmur came from the water. 
He could see but a little distance along the river surface 
either way, owing to a short bend, and the tall brakes 
on the banks shut out all else save an occasional report 
from the guns of his more enthusiastic companions. 
His dogs came and lay down near him, licking their 
muscular legs and glossy sides, or nibbling at an occa- 
sional burr in their hair. So all the rest of the after- 
noon he did not fire a shot. It was nearly sundown 
when he again climbed up the river-bank, and turned 
towards the house, with not a bird to show for the two 
or three hours spent with dogs and gun. But what to 
him were the poor trophies of a quail-shoot, now that 
his passionate nature was stirred to its depths with a 
love whose fullness and intensity left no room for 
another feeling or thought ? To be near Agnes Ran- 
som, to hear her voice, to gaze into her eyes, to bring 
the whole force of his will and the fullest power of his 
eloquence to bear upon her, to win her, to take her, 
to triumphantly hold her as his own, these were the 
desires, the purposes surging about in his breast. He 
walked slowly back towards the DeKay mansion, taking 
no heed of the beauties of earth or sky. It was noth- 
ing to him that the low-hanging sun flung a glory over 
the distant wood and touched the roof of the old house 
as if with a flame. 


CHAPTER X. 


MILLY INQUIRES. 

O NE day in the time of Reynolds’ absence at Gen- 
eral DeKay’s, White came down to Birmingham 
in his cart and Milly insisted so strenuously on accom- 
panying him, that she had her way. This led to an 
adventure of a sort likely to impress itself deeply in the 
mind of an unsophisticated girl of the mountains. She 
had given no especial reason for wishing to visit the 
city, but White shrewdly guessed that her 'desire to 
know something of the whereabouts of Reynolds was 
the motive impelling her to so unusual an undertaking, 
for heretofore she had always been veiy averse to going 
into Birmingham. 

When they reached town White gave Milly a pit- 
tance of money and said : 

“ You go ter some store, Milly, an’ buy y'e some 
candy er a apple er somethin’ er other. When ye git 
tired er foolin’ eround ye kin go back ter the cyart an’ 
stay ther’ tell I come.” 

She took the small pieces of silver without a word 
and allowed her father to desert her. She suspected 
that he meant to deceive her and go off to some gam- 


124 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES . 


bling den ; but she did not care. Her desires all cen- 
tered in finding Reynolds or hearing something about 
him. 

She strolled about from place to place in the street, 
innocently staring into men’s faces and quite as inno- 
cently receiving, without shrinking, such brutal leers 
and winks as certain of the bejeweled and over-dressed 
loafers bestowed in return. She went into a store now 
and then, but, instead of asking for any article of mer- 
chandise, she invariably propounded the question : 

“ I wanted ter ax ef ye hed seed any thing o’ John 
Reynolds ’bout this yer town ? ” 

She spoke with such confiding earnestness of manner 
and with such an appealing light in her eyes and such 
music in her voice, that she attracted immediate atten- 
tion from whomever she addressed. She received 
respectful answers from the tradesmen. None of them 
knew any thing about Reynolds, but some of them, 
touched in a sweet, indefinite way by the inexpressible 
half-lisp of her childish voice, and feeling the influence 
of her strange, yearning face and graceful form, tried 
to draw her into conversation only to discover that she 
became dumb so soon as she learned that they could 
not give her what she sought. She turned solemnly 
away from each one and left him to struggle out of the 
bewilderment she had unconsciously cast over his 
mind. 

With absolutely no knowledge of the difference 


MILL Y INQUIRES . 


125 


between a reputable business street and a row of dives, 
she drifted here and there until finally she met a man 
whom she at once recognized as Moreton, although in 
fact he was a drummer for a wholesale liquor house of 
Atlanta. She placed herself resolutely in his way, as 
he was about to pass her, and said : 

“Air ye the feller ’at come to our house thet day?” 

The man, a tall fellow, not unlike Moreton physi- 
cally, looked down at this pleasing apparition, and for 
want of better response, said : 

“ What day?” 

“ Thet air day ’at hit rained so, an’ ye tuck dinner, 
an’ staid all day. Don’t ye ’member?” 

“ Can’t recollect you, sis : seems like I ought to 
though, by George. What’s your name?” Retook 
hold of the brim of her coarse hat and lifting it a little 
peeped under at her face, now suddenly pink with 
blushing. 

“ Ye know — I’m Mr. White’s girl, up ther’ wher’ ye 
fotch the turkeys thet air rainy day.” 

“ Oh, yes, I do recollect mighty well now, certainly. 
I fetched the turkeys, yes. You are White’s girl. I’m 
real glad to see you. How’s the folks ? ” said he, glibly. 

“ We’re all well,” responded Milly. “ I wushed to 
ax ye ef ye’ve seed John Reynolds lately.” 

“John Reynolds — John Reynolds, which John Rey- 
nolds do you mean?” he inquired, with a deceptive 
show of having a dozen men of that name in his mind. 


126 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


“ Hit air Colonel Reynolds, es pap calls ’im, an’ he 
lives at our house, an’ ye know ye said he wer’ yer bes’ 
frien’ an’ ’at he wer’ a grand feller. Don’t ye ’member ? 
Well, I wush to see him.” 

“Any thing of a furious rush about seeing him right 
off — eh ? ” He stooped low enough to look into her 
strange beautiful eyes. “ What do you want to see 
him about?” 

She shrank uneasily and made no answer. Her pink 
lips quivered slightly, as a flower’s petals do when one 
breathes upon them. The man’s breath was foul with 
the fumes of whisky. 

“Oh, if it’s private — if it’s a secret between you,” 
he resumed, “ why, of course, I don’t intend to pry 
in ; but as Reynolds and I are chums, I don’t see why 
you won’t tell me.” 

“ I wushed to see ’im, that’s all,” she responded in a 
plaintive, hesitating voice, putting a finger in her 
mouth and scraping the toe of one coarse shoe back 
and forth on the ground. 

“ Oh, I guess that he’s rather keeping sort o’ shady 
from you, just now,” said the man with a brutal smile. 
“ He’s got him another girl now, he’s not caring about 
seeing you very soon. I know what he’s up to.” 

She shot a quick, almost wild look into his face, 
stared at him a moment and then slowly inquired : 

“ What air yer name ? ” 

He actually reddened with confusion, and was at a 


MILL Y INQ (SIRES. I 2 7 

loss what to answer. He saw that she had discovered 
his deceit. 

“ I was just joking,” he managed to say. “Never 
mind my jokes. If you’ll come with me I’ll take you 
to Reynolds. He’s just down here a little ways. 
Come on, I’ll show you.” 

“Ye’r’ not thet man — ye’r’— ” 

“Oh, that’s nothing: I was just fooling with you. 
Don’t get mad. If you get mad you’ll not have any 
luck. Come on if you want to see Reynolds.” 

Her eyes had assumed a vague, distressed look and 
her lips quivered again. 

“ I wush ye’d go tell ’im ’at I wush he’d come on 
home,” she said, glancing uneasily around, as if afraid 
that some one would approach. 

“ Guess you’d better go see him and surprise him like. 
He won’t be expecting you. He’s just down here a 
little piece. Come on, if you are going, I can’t fool 
around all day,” the man urged, an ugly gleam getting 
into his eyes and his face showing its coarsest lines. 

“ John wouldn’t like hit ef I’d go ther’ wher’ he is,” 
she responded. “ I hain’t got no business a goin’ 
down ther’. I’d be erbleeged ef ye’d tell ’im ” 

“ Tell him nothing,” gruffly rejoined the man. “ Come 
along, it’s not far, he’ll be all right ; he’s a good fellow 
and not going to make any fuss — come on. I’ll stand 
between you and all danger — come on.” 

“ I don’t wanter go, an’ I haint er goin’, an’ ye mought 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


12S 

as well quit er talkin’,” she almost doggedly replied, 
taking a step or two back from him. He followed 
her with a devilish leer in his eyes. 

The street was a disreputable one and there was a 
narrow alley near where they stood. 

“He’s not caring any thing about you now; you 
needn’t be so shy, I’m not going to do you any harm. 
I’m the best friend you’ve got.” 

Her strange, troubled face brightened a little. 

“ Then, ef ye’r’ my friend,” she quickly said, “ go an’ 
tell ’im at I w'ush he’d please kem home.” 

The man laughed, looked at her quizzically for a time, 
and then in a tone, half of vexation and half of amuse- 
ment, said : 

“ Well, if you aren’t the dangedest curiosity I ever 
saw ! You ought to travel with Barnum.” 

He gazed at her intently from head to foot, his face 
softening. 

“ You’ve no business trotting around loose in these 
suburbs,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, 
then quite solus he added : “ She’s cracked : she’s an 
idiot.” 

Her vague troubled look now appealed to the other 
side of the man’s nature. “ Do you know where you 
are? This is no place for you ; where do you live?” 
He put his inquiries in a voice so different from that 
half-wheedling, half brutal one hitherto used, that she 
instantly looked up with a gleam of trust in her eyes. 


MILL y INQUIRES. 


129 


“ Where is your home ? ” he continued. 

“ Over to the tother side o’ the mounting, at Mr. 
White’s,” she frankly answered. 

“ Well, what are you doing down here among these 
saloons and dives? Why don’t you go home and stay 
with your mother? This is a bad place for you.” 

“ I hain’t er feared,” she said ; “ I er a goin’ down yer 
ter pap’s cyart. Pap an’ me we kem ter town tergether. 
I jist stopped ter ask yer ef ye’d seed John, that wer' 
all I keered about ye. Ye needn’t er be a frettin’ yer- 
self ’bout me.” 

The man chuckled in a puzzled way and walked on, 
muttering to himself something about the “ dangedest 
prettiest idiot ” that he ever saw. He looked back a 
time or two to watch Milly as she carelessly strolled 
along, her petite form showing its lithe, wild grace, with 
every movement and her wisp of yellowish hair shining 
under her hat and straying down over the back of her 
loose cotton gown. His eyes had something of the 
wistful glare with which a cat gazes at an escaped bird. 

Milly found her father’s cart under a tree in the out- 
skirts of the town, the one kind-eyed, long-horned little 
ox contentedly ruminating between the rude shafts. 

“ W’y, ole Ben, air ye tired er waitin’ ? ” she exclaimed, 
patting the bony little fellow on the shoulder, “ we’ll 
be er goin’ soon es pap comes, won’t we, Ben ? ” 

She climbed into the shallow box of the cart and sat 
down on its bottom with her head thrown back so that 


13 ° 


AT LOVE'S EX TREMES. 


she could gaze up through the tree-tops at the bright 
blue sky. A breeze, cool and sweet, was stealing down 
from the mountains rustling the few dry leaves that still 
clung to the branches overhead. She sang, in a thin 
childish falsetto, snatches of the simple hymn-tunes 
she had caught from her parents; but she got the words 
together in a meaningless confusion. Her conception 
of a song of any sort rose no higher than a con- 
sciousness of the pleasing sounds of the voice sing- 
ing it. 

For a long while she waited patiently, now and then 
glancing down the unkempt street to see if her father 
had yet come in sight ; then she stood up in the cart 
and looked. It was growing late. The sun was slip- 
ping down behind the mountains and a cooler breath 
crept through the valley. 

“Well, Ben, hit air no use er stayin’ yer any longer, 
I ’spec’ at pap he air drunk. Git erp ther’, Ben ! ” 

She had gathered up the rope guiding line and the 
gad that lay in the box, and as she finished speaking 
she tapped the ox and drove away, heading for the 
road that led homeward. The thought that her father 
was drunk seemed not to affect her in any way. She 
soon resumed her singing, and her aimless, wistful gazing 
at the splendid Southern sky. 

It was long after night-fall, but the moon was shining 
brightly, when Milly drove up to the little front gate at 
home, and freeing Ben from his yoke and shafts, turned 


MILL V INQ UIRES. 1 3 1 

him loose to browse on the mountain-side. Her mother 
met her at the door. 

“ Wher’ air yer pap ? ” was the laconic inquiry. 

“ Drunk, I ’spec’,” was the answer. 

“ An’ er playin’ of keerds,” suggested Mrs. White. 

“Yes, I ’spec’.” 

“ Well, ef hit air seving up ’at he air a playin’ ther’ 
air sense to hit, fer he gin’rally wa’ms their low down 
gam’lin’ hides fer ’em, w’en hit air seving up ’at he 
plays ; but ef he goes in on ter any er them tother 
games, he’ll come home ’ithout ary cent inter his 
pockets, mind what I tell ye.” 

“I wush John ’d come home, that’s what I wush,” 
murmured Milly, opening the door of Reynolds’ room 
and going in to wander listlessly about among his 
things. She touched his books, his pencils, his brushes, 
his pen, and lingered about the easel upon which the 
dog sketch still rested unfinished. 

It was nearly midnight when White came in good- 
humoredly drunk, boasting of another victory at “ sev- 
ing up with them air gam’lers.” His wife had gone to 
bed, but Milly met him with her usual quiet welcome 
and the formula expressing her predominant “ wush.” 

“Ye needn’t er be ’spectin’ the Colonel home for a 
week, Milly,” he said, as he lighted his pipe for a sober- 
ing smoke before retiring ; “ fer he’s gone away down 
on the Al’bam’ River to Gen’l DeKay’s to a huntin’ 
frolic with banker Noble an’ his darter.” 


* 3 * 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


Nothing save the very unusual amount of whisky he 
had been taking could have induced White to say that 
and in such a tone. Milly looked at him in a dazed, 
stupid way, her cherry underlip falling as if from the 
weight of the information she had received. 

“ Do he go wuth them air fine folks ? ” she presently 
inquired, in a dry, doleful voice. 

“Ye’d think so ef ye’d see ’im,” he answered. “ He 
air high dinky davy along of the best of 'em, I tell 
ye. Him an’ that feller Moreting what wer’ here that 
rainy day do scoot aroun’ with them air silks an’ rib- 
bons an’ jew’lry alarmin’ to the saints.” 

Milly put her hands together and rested them on her 
head with their fingers intertwined. She appeared to 
be considering some troublesome proposition. 

“ Do ye s’pose them folks ’ll make fun of we-uns to 
’im ? ” 

White chuckled. 

“ I don’t keer airy dam ef they do,” he said, con- 
temptuously snapping his thumb and finger. “ Let ’em 
sail in.” 

“ Well I wush ’at they wouldn’t. ’Tain’t none er 
the’r business ’bout how we-uns looks, no how,” she 
quickly replied. She looked over her faded cotton 
dress as she spoke, with a hurried, dissatisfied glance. 
She had seen some wonderful dresses in Birmingham. 

“ No, hit tain’t the’r business, thet’s a fac’, Milly,” 
he responded, ramming his pipe with his finger and 


MILL Y INQUIRES. 


>33 

wagging his head. “ ’Tain’t store clo’s, an’ jew’ls an’ 
sich ’at meks folks honest an’ ’spectable, hits in yer, 
Milly, in yer,” tapping his breast. “ We’r’ jest as good 
as any body, hain’t we, Milly ? ” 

“ Spec’ so ; dunno,” she said, looking dully at him. 
“ I wusli he had er staid yer an’ kep’ away f’om down 
ther’.” 

“ Hit air p’int blank no use er wushin’ thet, Milly,” 
he slowly and firmly declared, “ fur he air dead sot onto 
’em an’ he air a goin’ wi’ ’em. In fae’, he air them sort 
er folks his own self, he air, Milly.” 

The girl’s eyes slowly brimmed with big tears, and 
without further words she crept off to bed. White sat 
and smoked in a gloomy way for a long while, his 
face showing more than usually gaunt and wrinkled 
in the dim light of the flickering pine knots on the 
hearth. He shook his head from time to time, as if 
dissatisfied with such results as his thoughts produced. 
Once he spoke out rather fiercely. 

“ Hit air a dern shame ! ” he exclaimed, in a voice so 
fierce and bitter that it awoke his wife. And yet he 
was too simple-minded to dream of the worst. With 
the queer pride of the mountaineer, he was viewing the 
predicament simply from a social standpoint. 


CHAPTER XI. 


DALLYING. 


HE quail-shoot, after the enthusiastic contest of 



1 the first day, abated to a sort of desultory 
skirmish, each sportsman going into the field as best 
suited his mood. -The weather bred a languor, pecul- 
iarly Southern and dreamy, which was aided by the 
quietude and isolation of the place. The bustle and 
activity with which the sport had begun became irreg- 
ularly intermittent. Day after day the sky was serene 
and cloudless, tinted with that cool, bird-egg blue, ten- 
der, delicate, transparent, against which the lines of 
wood came out with a peculiar semi-tropical effect. 
Nearly all the time there was a breeze, not the rollick- 
ing Northern wind that whisks things about, but a 
fitful breath that palpitated lazily in the tops of the 
dull old trees and stirred the vines and plants and dry, 
thin grass in a fashion wholly indefinite and aimless. 
It was a luxury to idle around in the shadowy nooks 
and corners of DeKay Place, where the spirit of old 
times hovered like a vague, fascinating perfume. Life 
lost its rough angles here, its outlines softening down 
to harmonize with the monotonous equipoise of its 
surroundings. The river had the charm of all low- 


DALLYING. 


135 


country streams, a warm, slow, lagging motion, a look 
of lapsing away into some strange, silent, unexplored 
region ; its murmur was a lingering, never quite ended 
good-by. 

To Reynolds those were days of deep and sweet 
excitement into which now and then darted a pang 
like a stab in the heart. He was with Agnes Ran- 
som a great deal. Shy and strangely limited in con- 
versation as she was, he yet found her monosyllables 
and simplest phrases quite enough to hold him to her 
side. She had not read a great deal of art and litera- 
ture, she had but fragmentary glimpses of knowledge, 
her round of life had been confined to a small compass: 
still she seemed to have gathered a great deal, and a 
depth rather than a width of experience was in some 
subtle way suggested by her words and looks. 

Moreton was unreservedly happy. Born sportsman 
as he was, it must have been a genuine old-time love 
that made him prefer sitting on the veranda or on one 
of the rustic benches with Miss Noble to following the 
pointers and setters afield under the cloudless sky and 
over-warm beams of this waning, low-country winter. 
He also allowed himself to become interested to a 
certain extent in the plans of Miss Crabb. From his 
English point of view, this eager, outspoken, persistent 
young woman, with her mingled air of freshness, alert- 
ness and strangely hindered ambition, was a very novel 
and interesting study. He recognized and respected 


1 3 6 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


the worthiness and purity of her aims, whilst he could 
not keep from regarding her doings with a curiosity 
little short of that with which he would have observed 
the gambols of a rare, species of monkey. He 
had not been long enough in America to become 
indifferent to the oddities and sharp salients of Ameri- 
can character and our social contrasts and discords, 
nor had his tastes resigned themselves to such breezy, 
democratic familiarity as Miss Crabb insisted upon ; 
but he was a good hater of shams, and her genuine- 
ness appealed to him in its spirit if not in its manner. 
He walked with her an hour back and forth on one of 
the long verandas, scarcely aware how much he was 
promising when he agreed to make some sketches for 
her. He had been, as the reader knows, an art-student 
once, but had lacked either talent or industry or both, 
getting on no further than to become a clever sketcher. 
Miss Crabb told him all she knew touching every sub- 
ject she could think of, even going so far as to give 
the details of the distressing tragic circumstances 
under which Mrs. Ransom had been made a widow. 
It was a sad story of a mere girl marrying a hand- 
some, dashing, rather reckless youth, who led her a 
romantic life for a time and finally deserted her, going 
away to Texas where he had been killed in a street 
fight with a desperado at San Antonio. Such stories 
were rather common in the South at one time. The 
first decade after the close of the war was, in the Gulf 


DALL YING. 


»37 


States, one of humiliation, nervousness, doubt — a 
decade that soured and vitiated many young lives, 
making almost outlaws of youths who, under a milder 
influence would have been good citizens, or at least, 
harmless ones. Sudden poverty, the stagnation of 
agriculture and trade, the ebbing of all commercial 
tides, the swift leveling of social eminences, and the 
desperation that followed dire defeat, were supple- 
mented and aggravated by political annoyances of the 
most grievous nature. But the one demoralizing 
element most active and potent was the prejudice, 
deep-seated and woven into the very tissues of the 
Southern youth, against gaining a livelihood by manual 
labor in plebeian employments. Of course it is no 
wonder that this prejudice existed, indeed it would 
have been amazing if it had not existed ; but the result 
was the destruction of many young men who really had 
in them the qualities that go, under ordinary circum- 
stances, to make up valuable citizens. 

Herbert Ransom came of an honorable and once 
wealthy family at Pensacola, Florida. He was one of 
what has been rather familiarly termed the “ first crop 
of young men since the war,” which means that during 
the war he was too young to be a soldier, and became 
a man soon after its close. He was bright, handsome, 
vain, unprincipled, and yet he passed current in society 
and married Agnes DeKay, a beautiful girl scarcely six- 
teen, whose father, a brother of General DeKay, was 


138 AT LO VE 'S EXTREMES. 

very poor, very proud and very old. For a time the 
young people lived a sweet, idyllic sort of life on an 
old plantation near Mariana, Florida; but Ransom’s 
restless, rollicking nature would not be confined to mere 
domestic quietude. He tried speculation in cotton 
with just enough success to lead him swiftly to finan- 
cial ruin. The plantation was sold at a great sacrifice 
and Agnes had to return to her father, while Ransom 
went to western Texas with the avowed purpose of 
looking after some wild lands belonging to his father’s 
estate, but really with no hope of ever again seeing 
his wife. He had been gone nearly a year when the 
news of his tragic death in a street fight in San 
Antonio reached his relations in Pensacola. Soon 
after this Agnes’ parents died and she was left with an 
income barely sufficient to support her. She had no 
children, and, with a widowed aunt, she lived in the old 
family homestead at Pensacola, until General DeKay 
came and persuaded her to become his adopted daugh- 
ter. This meager outline of what seemed to Moreton 
a most pathetic story, fell glibly from the lips of Miss 
Crabb, along with sundry shrewd strictures upon social 
laws that render women so powerless to struggle with 
adversity and neglect. 

“When a woman gets married,” she observed, “she 
becomes helpless. She plunges into the gulf of mat- 
rimony with a mill-stone at her neck, so that she may 
be sure to disappear utterly. If she ever again comes 


DALLYING . -139 

to the surface it is but to air troubles for which there is 
no cure.” 

“ If that is the case,” said Moreton, “ if I were a 
woman I should try and not marry.” 

Miss Crabb laughed. 

“ Oh, I presume there will always be a majority of 
fools among us,” she replied. “Silly girls and restless 
spinsters, ready to be martyred for the mere romance 
of the thing ; but you know, as well as I, that this is 
an awfully one-sided world.” 

“Yes, but you women make it so, don’t you know, 
by decoying us over to your side, thus destroying the 
equilibrium. If we were the antipodes of each other, 
now, this would be a gloriously balanced world ! All 
the sorrow-making material on one side and all the 
joy-bringers on the other ! ” 

“You are like the rest — you won’t condescend to 
sensibly argue a question with a woman. You must 
go off into badinage, as if a woman could not under- 
stand and enjoy cogent reasoning. I don’t like insin- 
cerity, Mr. Moreton.” 

“ I beg a thousand pardons,” he exclaimed. “ I did 
not mean to be insincere — indeed, Miss Crabb, I was 
under the impression that I was making myself quite 
entertaining, don’t you know, I ” 

She laughed again, a clear, honest, prairie laugh, 
throwing back her head and holding up one hand as if 
to ward off something. 


140 


AT LOVE’S EXTREMES. 


“ Oh, it’s the same thing over and over. Wherever 
I go men look upon me as a sort of monstrosity at 
large by some accident, because I travel alone, just as 
a man may, and because I attend to my business, just 
as a man does. It’s really funny sometimes ; I overhear 
what they say. They comment on me. ‘ A cheeky 
old girl,’ ‘ a newspaper crank,’ ‘ a stiff-minded female,’ 
and 1 a meddling nuisance,’ are the delicate and friendly 
epithets applied to me by men. One fellow at the 
Cincinnati convention called me ‘a bag of gimlets ’ to 
my face.” 

“ But then your absolute knowledge that the man 
was mistaken must have ruined the point of his 
remark,” said Moreton. “Conscious innocence is an 
impenetrable shield.” 

She looked up at him with a flash of momentary 
anger in her eyes, then laughing again she said : 

“Oh, go on, I’m used to it, and, besides, I can’t 
afford to quarrel with you until I have your sketches 
in hand; you must make the sketches, Mr. Moreton: 
they will be invaluable to me. I want to get on in 
literature, and the only way in which I can do that is 
to get into the great illustrated magazines : they are 
the highways to fame.” There was a hungry, almost 
greedy ring to her voice, as if her longing for literary 
recognition were rooted in her heart. Moreton fan- 
cied that her lips quivered as she spoke. Her manner 
touched his sympathy. 


DALL YING. 


141 

“You’ll get on fast enough, Miss Crabb,” he quickly 
said ; “your energy and persistence and your capacity 
for work will take you through, never fear.” It was 
the best he could think of, though he felt its utter 
inadequacy to her fancied needs. As he looked down 
upon her his rather heavy, thoroughly English face 
wore a very kindly expression. 

“ But you don’t know, Mr. Moreton, you can’t imagine 
what a hard time I have ; how many ugly obstacles men 
put in my way, simply because I am a woman. I don’t 
see why they do, but they do. It’s awful sometimes.” 

“ They are brutes, they ought to be punched, don’t 
you know,” he blurted ; “ they deserve no recognition 
by gentlemen.” 

“Yes, but they do get recognition,” she replied, half- 
mournfully. “ They drink and smoke and swear them- 
selves into prominence in every walk of life — into 
fame, fortune, and ” 

“ Oh, not so bad as that, I hope,” he interposed. 
“Don’t be discouraged. George Eliot and Georges 
Sand and ” 

“They are not American women,” she interrupted 
in turn, “ and they have never tried editing a country 
newspaper or writing for a New York magazine. They 
were rich, or had influential friends, or made people 
believe they were men.” 

“ Well, suppose you try adopting a masculine pseu- 
donym, you might ” 


r 4 2 


AT LOVE’S EXTREMES. 


“Never!” she exclaimed, with a little stamp of the 
foot. “ Never! I shall win my way as a woman or not 
at all.” 

Moreton was beginning to comprehend, in a measure, 
the really pathetic hopelessness of Miss Crabb’s intel- 
lectual predicament. To his mind she appeared a 
heroine with a self-imposed task quite as great as that 
of Joan of Arc. Like Joan, she must at last be man’s 
victim. He could see the stake set and the fagots 
heaped for her already. It now seemed a mighty 
blessing of providence that she was not beautiful, that 
she was positively ugly and not at all likely to attract 
men. He had the English admiration for pluck and 
he felt a great desire to help her ; but there was no 
way. Evidently she did not possess any genius and 
was only gifted with a shrewd, quick mind and a 
hungry imagination. She was mistaking notoriety for 
just fame and was deluding herself with the belief 
that her burning desire for success was proof positive 
of her power to succeed. Nevertheless her attitude 
was heroic and he wished her a better fate than was 
sure to befall her. 

“ But you must not commit the folly of setting your- 
self against men,” he presently said, his voice taking 
on a persuasive tone; “you must recognize their power 
and the necessity of winning their confidence and 
help.” 

“ I have tried that turn,” she replied with a short 


DALL YING. 


H3 

laugh that had a ring of derision in it, “ and it’s no 
use. A woman must have beauty before she can 
influence men. All the wisdom of Minerva could not 
have compassed what Cleopatra’s ” 

“ Hold,” cried Moreton, with an affectation of light- 
ness which he did not feel, “you are slandering my 
sex, or, at least, I am an exception. Not that I don’t 
admit the power of beauty, but you put the rule too 
savagely, don’t you know. Why, you really frighten 
me with your suggestion of masculine depravity ! ” 

She laughed and changed the subject. They con- 
tinued walking to and fro and chatting in a broken 
way with the sough of the wind and the swash of the 
river filling up the spaces. 

“ Some day,” she said, recurring to the subject 
always uppermost in her mind, and turning to leave 
him, “ some day my ship will come in.” 

Moreton breathed freer when she was gone. Her 
state of ferment, of restless effort, tired him. 

Two or three hours later when he and Reynolds sat 
by a window of the latter’s room, smoking cigars, he 
said : 

“ Miss Crabb told me something a while ago that 
surprised and touched me.” 

“ Well, what was it ? ” inquired Reynolds, gazing 
dreamily out into the brilliant, moonlit night. He 
had just been for an hour talking with Mrs. Ransom 
and was now mentally going over again every word of 


144 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


the charming conversation. He was in love, he knew 
it, and was reveling in the luxury of it. Her sweet 
face and low, rich voice, her quiet grace of manner, her 
slender, supple form and that indescribable, mysterious 
half-sadness in her eyes and smile, had fired his imagi- 
nation and filled his blood with a gentle tumult. 
Never before had the moon and stars and the grand 
expanse of heaven looked so lovely to him ; never had 
the world seemed so good ; never had life seemed so 
precious. Being in love is a trite thing, and may be 
going out of fashion, but it is worth experiencing 
once, at least, in every lifetime, as a test of the imagi- 
nation, if for nothing else. 

“ She gave me an account of Mrs. Ransom’s 
troubles,” said Moreton. “ It seems that hers has 
been a rather rough cruise.” 

Reynolds clamped his cigar between his teeth and 
looked up. 

“ I know, I know,” he said, in a half-impatient voice. 
“ Her husband deserted her.” 

“And was murdered out on the Texas border,” 
added Moreton. 

“ Murdered,” said Reynolds, as if weighing the 
word. “ There has been a great deal of that sort of 
thing in Texas.” 

“In this instance,” Moreton went on, “ I fancy that 
the murder was all for the best. Poor little woman, 
how she must have suffered under such treatment as 


DALL ying. 


145 

that young villain gave her. Pity that all such fellows 
don’t go to Texas and get a hole bored through 
them ! ” 

Reynolds smoked quite rapidly for a few seconds, 
with his eyelids nearly shut together, a barely percept- 
ible grayish pallor spreading over his cheeks. Pres- 
ently, in an even and steady, but very strange voice, 
he said : 

“ She is a lovely little woman, Moreton, a sweet, 
warm-hearted, true and noble little woman. I love 
her, Moreton. I’m going to marry her, if I can.” 

“Good!” exclaimed Moreton. “I’m glad to hear 
that. She will just suit you, make you a charming 
wife. I hope you’ll find your way clear, old fellow.” 

For a time they both were silent, each thinking of 
his own love, and gazing out into the almost blue-black 
depths of the star-sprinkled sky. A gentle swashing 
sound came from the river along with the fragrance of 
pine-needles and the odor of turpentine. Somewhere, 
seemingly at a vast distance, an owl now and then 
laughed, as if from a sepulcher. 

“ My way seems clear enough,” Reynolds at last 
said, “ if I can understand her ; but she is an elusive 
little woman, shy and incomprehensible at times.” 

Moreton laughed. 

“They all are that way — it’s a part of woman’s 
nature to be inexplicable, don’t you know, deuced 
inexplicable. Now there’s that Miss Crabb: I never 


146 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


saw such an enigma. She’s a man and a woman and a 
little school-girl, all in one.” 

Reynolds got up from his chair and began walking 
to and fro, his head thrown back, his hands clasped 
behind him. He frowned and pressed his lips over his 
cigar so that deep furrows came on each side of his 
mouth. 

“ Being in love appears to render you gloomy,” 
Moreton lightly exclaimed, as he glanced into his 
friend’s face. “ Love is like wine, it makes some men 
surly whilst it makes others merry. Now I ” 

Reynolds waved his hand impatiently and said 
almost abruptly : 

“ If she really loved her husband, in the first place, 
it must have been a dreadful ordeal she went 
through.” 

“ Oh, she must have been very young, scarcely more 
than a child,” said Moreton, as if hurrying to relieve 
Reynolds, if he could; “and I should think she has 
outgrown it in a great degree, by this time. She 
seems quite cheerful and in superb health.” 

Reynolds turned as he came near the middle of the 
room, and facing Moreton, appeared on the point of 
saying some momentous thing. A gloomy cloud of 
excitement had settled on his countenance. His lips 
faltered at the point of speech, and with a strange 
smile he resumed his pacing to and fro. Moreton’s 
eyes followed him with a look of puzzled interest. 


DALL Y1NG. 


147 


Presently he laughed outright and exclaimed chaff- 
ingly : 

“You make me think of that little girl of White’s 
when you look like that, Reynolds. Your eyes are for 
all the world like hers, with those mysterious sad 
shadows in them. What the deuce is the matter ? ” 

Reynolds’ countenance changed abruptly; he essayed 
to laugh, but there was no sincerity in the effort. He 
shook his head and answered : 

“ My head is all in a whirl and I believe I am excited ; 
but you must remember that I am hard hit and awfully 
in earnest.” His attempt at making light of his show 
of feeling was not more successful than his laughter had 
been. He saw that Moreton felt its hollowness, and he 
made haste to add : “ It has always been thus with me. 
I am a creature of extremes, a straw in the currents of 
passion.” 

From Moreton’s rather phlegmatic point of view, this 
excitement was something inexplicable. He saw no 
reasonable cause for it in the situation, and his mind at 
once reverted to certain indications of a secret trouble 
observable in Reynolds ever since their first meeting 
in Birmingham. Naturally enough the rather strange 
home chosen by Reynolds amid the sterile mountains 
and among the rude, uninteresting mountaineers, came 
up to emphasize Moreton’s suspicion that all was not 
well with his friend. 

“What especial current of passion is tossing you 


A T LO VE ' S EXTREMES . 


14S 

just now, to render you so restless and moody?” 
Moreton demanded. “ One would think you were 
meditating something as dark as suicide or assassina- 
tion.” 

“Oh, I’m all right; I don’t mean to do any thing 
diabolical, I’m too happy for that ; give me another 
cigar, mine are locked up in my bag.” He pulled him- 
self together as he spoke, and laughed in a way so 
careless and natural that Moreton felt a sense of disap- 
pointment at having inwardly to acknowledge himself 
baffled, if not mistaken. 

They smoked and talked until late, enjoying the 
lulling coolness of the night air coming in at the open 
windows. Reynolds was exceedingly cheerful, and 
when they separated for the night he said : 

“ If you have as sweet dreams as I expect to indulge 
in to-night, tell me in the morning, will you ? Good 
night.” 

But Moreton, who slept lightly, awoke now and 
then, and heard him walking to and fro all the rest of 
the night. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A BIT OF LOVE MAKING. 


HE party at General DeKay’s broke up gradually. 



1 some of the sportsmen going away on the morn- 
ing of the day following the quail shoot, the rest taking 
their departure in groups or singly, as business necessi- 
tated or a sense of propriety dictated. At last the 
Nobles, the Beresfords, Miss Crabb, Reynolds and 
Moreton were the favored remnant, lingering at the 
old plantation to enjoy, as long as possible, the sweets 
of its almost arcadian life. 

Notwithstanding the great change wrought by the 
war, the DeKays had been able to hold on to a pictur- 
esque residuum of their former wealth and to keep up 
a fair show of that hospitality which had once been 
almost unlimited. The guests of the mansion felt the 
perfect freedom given them, and so the days went by 
without a circumstance to hinder their enjoyment of 
every moment. 

Uncle Mono was a source of great amusement to 
everybody; his banjo, his songs, his stories, his pecul- 
iar philosophy and that individuality of thought and 
expression, so often exhibited by old negroes, making 
him especially interesting to Moreton and Miss Crabb. 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


* 5 ° 

His life had been so saturated with slavery’s influ- 
ences that freedom, coming to him after he had passed 
the meridian of life, had not been able to change him 
much. 

Along with his other gifts, Uncle Mono was a for- 
tune-teller whose fame held the admiration and the 
awe of all the negroes at highest strain. He could tell 
when it was going to rain and when the wind was 
going to change as well as he could predict the kind 
of sweetheart the future would bring to the inquiring 
youth or maiden. In fact he was the seventh son of a 
seventh son, and not a drop of white-man’s blood ran 
in his veins. 

“ I’s pyo’ blood dahky f’om away back,” he was 
fond of saying. “ None yo’ yaller niggah ’bout me. 
Nuffin’ I ’spises mo’ ’n one o’ dese yer no’ ’count clay- 
faced merlatters. Steal ! Dey des steal de sole of ’m 
yo’ shoes! No sah, I’s pyo’ blood dahky.” 

Sometimes, when the evening air chanced to be 
warm enough, the guests and the household would 
assemble on one of the wide verandas and send for 
Uncle Mono to play for them while the gentlemen 
smoked their pipes and cigars and the ladies prome- 
naded back and forth to the brisk tinkling of the 
banjo. They all enjoyed the touch of old-time custom 
when a number of the plantation negroes, young and 
old, crept up to within a respectful distance, looking 
on and listening. 


A BIT OF LOVE MALTING. 


The nights were superb, the splendor of stars or 
moon and sky adding an almost weird sheen to the 
gray fields and silvery river. The pronounced atmos- 
phere of isolation which broods over all those large 
low-country plantations gave to the guests at DeKay 
Place a comforting sense of liberty, as if the restraints 
of conventional life had been dissolved and dissipated, 
or had never come here. 

Some swings had been made of huge muscadine 
vines brought from the woods and suspended from 
the trees on the lawn. The young women, especially 
Miss Noble and Miss Crabb, found swinging most 
exhilarating sport. Moreton watched Cordelia as she 
oscillated, like a gay pendulum, in the soft night-light 
under the dusky boughs, until his heart timed its beat- 
ing with her movements. He enjoyed every phase of 
this delightful subtropical episode in his life. It did 
him good to see Reynolds returning to something like 
his old-time youthful enthusiasm and cheerfulness. 

Among them all it was silently noted how Mrs. 
Ransom and Reynolds were drawn towards each other. 

“ Dunno ’bout dat big, dahk young ge’man flyin’ 
roun’ de young missus no how,” muttered Uncle Mono 
to his colored companions ; “ seem lak mebbe she 
better look sha’p ’bout ’im. He sort o’ ’sterious 
lookin’ young man anyhow.” 

Miss Crabb for some reason failed to win favor with 
the negroes. She was very much interested in them 


J 5 2 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


and tried hard to study them ; but her inquiring man- 
ner and insistent tones of voice did not touch their 
warm African hearts. On the other hand, Miss Noble 
was a prime favorite with them all. 

“Bress dat sweet chile,” said Uncle Mono, “she 
jes’ lak de ripe peach on de eend ob a limb, she sort o’ 
glimmer an’ look too good fo’ to pull off an’ too ripe 
fo’ to let erlone.” 

“ Dat same lak what de young boss f’om way off 
fink, I ’spec,” ventured a colored listener. “ He look 
at ’er ’mazin’ sof’ an’ hongry lak.” 

“Wha’ yo’ know ’bout it?” stormed Uncle Mono. 
“ Wha’ business yo’ got fo’ to be a watchin’ dem whi’ 
folks ? Fust ting yo’ know yo’ git yo’ backbone wa’med 
up wid a stick ! Better not be peekin’ ’roun’, / tell yo’.” 

“ Ef yo’ lak what yo’ call peekin’,” replied the other, 
with a comical grin, “jes’ cas’ yo’ eye on dat young 
leddy dat’s got de leetle book an’ pencil ; she kin’ 
peek fo’ de Lor’ sake ! ” 

Miss Crabb was pretty well aware of the delicacy of 
her situation, or, to put it fairly, the indelicacy of it ; 
but she had gone too far to retreat. She must brave 
it through to the end. 

It chanced that Moreton discovered Miss Noble’s 
pique at Reynolds because of his neglect to fulfill his 
promise to teach her the art of handling a gun. This 
gave him a most excellent excuse for offering himself 
as her instructor. He borrowed Reynolds’ little gun 


A BIT OF LOVE MAKING . 


153 


and made the most of his opportunities. His patience 
was unbounded and Miss Noble’s zeal unflagging, so 
that between them they squandered a great deal of 
time down on a little open plat between the house 
and the river, banging away at an improvised target. 
As for Reynolds, his promise to Miss Noble was 
entirely forgotten by him. His love for Agnes Ransom 
had crowded every lighter thing from his consciousness. 
General DeKay and Mr. Noble remained faithful to 
the object of the occasion, pursuing the birds with 
dogs and guns each day with unremitting ardor. 
Young Beresford and his sister, after a most commend- 
able effort to stem, with a show of good natured indif- 
ference, the tide setting against the passion of one and 
the pride of the other, went away, taking with them, 
much against their will, the unflagging Miss Crabb, 
whose pencil had filled the little red book with pot- 
hook notes of what she had seen and heard. 

Miss Crabb had failed, however, to get any sketches 
from Moreton. He had, at last, begged her to release 
him from the obligation of his hasty promise. 

“ I did not think/’ he said to her; “ I did not once 
think of the — the — the propriety of the thing, don’t 
you know, when we were talking about it ; but it would 
offend every one here. These people are peculiarly 
exclusive — very proud people, Miss Crabb, and they 
would take it as a gross breach of hospitality. I am 
very sorry, and I hope you will not — not ” 


154 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


“ Oh, no, certainly, I see/’ she exclaimed, in confused 
haste. “ It’s all right, Mr. Beresford — Moreton I mean, 
it’s all right, I assure you ; but do you think they’ll 
care for my writing them up ? I don’t see how I can 
afford to waste all this material. It’ll work up so 
charmingly.” 

“ I don’t pretend to advise as to that,” Moreton 
evasively answered. “You needn’t send them any 
copy of your paper. It takes any thing new a century 
to get here, if it isn’t especially sent. Use your own 
good editorial judgment, Miss Crabb.” 

“ Yes, of course,” she responded, thoughtfully adjust- 
ing her gloves, “ it is a matter of business, a matter of 
bread and butter with me. I must make every edge 
cut.” She was silent for a moment. Presently she 
looked up quickly and keenly, adding in a thin voice : 
“ If one writes for the public one must write what is of 
interest. One can’t afford to stand on small proprieties. 
I can’t, at least: I’m poor.” 

Moreton had ready no response. He felt an impulse 
toward putting his hand into his pocket to give her 
some money ; but of course he did not do it. Never 
before had a look conveyed to him so sudden a dis- 
covery of the hard lines of the life of a woman who is 
thrown upon her own resources for earning a livelihood. 
It suggested to him a phase of human struggle hitherto 
quite shut out of his imagination, however familiar to 
Americans, 


A BIT OF LOVE MAKING. 


155 


“ Well, good-by," she presently said, with an almost 
cheerful smile. “ I wish I could stay here always : this 
is pretty near my ideal of what a home should be." 
She cast a slow glance around her, letting her eyes 
linger on the picturesque old mansion and its embow- 
ering trees. Moreton fancied that her face betrayed a 
feeling of weariness and failure, as if her enthusiasm 
had suddenly vanished. 

“ Good-by, Miss Crabb, I wish you great success," he 
responded, cordially taking her hand. It was the best 
he could do. 

“ Thank you," she quickly replied. “ I am determined 
to deserve success, at least ; but it is a long way off, I 
sometimes fear." She turned to go to the waiting car- 
riage, but faced him again and added : “ This has been a 
most charming experience to me. What a sweet, rest- 
ful life it must be living here. I almost envy — I almost 

covet Mrs. Ransom’s lot. I have had such a hard ," 

but she did not finish the sentence. “ Good-by," she 
repeated, and went away. 

Moreton felt a pang of sympathy for this poor girl, 
though he had no very definite idea of what her strug- 
gles, her hopes and her failures might be. It was 
enough for him to know that she was good and 
honest and earnest, and that she felt the hardship of 
some galling limitations. 

“ Will she ever come to any thing? Is there really 
any chance for a person like her in this country?" he 


! 5 6 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


inquired of Miss Noble a little later, as he sat by her 
side on a rustic seat under some trees by the river. 

“ She may make a hit, as it is termed,” was the 
answer. “ Some of them do, and then, if she will make 
the most of it, she may get to where life is easier ; but 
at best she can not hope for much.” 

“It seems queer and pitiful to me,” he said, after a 
moment of thoughtfulness, “ that so good and kind a 
girl as she evidently is should have to do such things. 
Her situation has deeply touched me.” 

“That is because you haven’t been used to it. 
Young ladies probably do not report for the press in 
England,” replied Cordelia. “ It is a very common 
thing for them to do it here.” 

Moreton smiled, as one who gives up a sentiment 
rather reluctantly is apt to do, and said : 

“ Still I would rather not see it ; she appeared out of 
place, somehow.” 

“She was quite out of place here; but she has 
become so used to overcoming such obstacles that she 
easily evaded any sense of the impropriety of invading 
the privacy of General DeKay’s ” 

“ No, I beg your pardon,” hastily spoke up Moreton. 
“You do her wrong. She did feel very keenly that she 
was de trop , that she wasn’t just free and welcome, don’t 
you know. I saw it — she almost acknowledged it to me, 
in fact, and I felt downright sorry for her.” 

“ Poor thing ! ” exclaimed Cordelia, her voice soften- 


A BIT OF LOVE MAKING. 


157 


in g with the sudden change in her quick sympathy. 
“ Poor girl ! and we didn’t try to help her or to make 
her feel easy. I hate myself for it. I see how mean I 
have been. It would have been so easy to have 
smoothed things for her, too !” 

Moreton felt a temptation to seize this warm-hearted, 
impulsive girl and press her close to his breast. Indeed 
he had a right to be sorely tempted, for she was a 
strong, lithe, blooming maiden, whose steadfast honesty 
and purity glowed in her eyes and on her lips. Then 
there was the dreamy sunshine and the checkered shade 
and the softly rippling breeze to add to his mood, and 
yonder was the slumberous river lapsing away between 
its brakes. But he satisfied himself with simply look- 
ing at her and allowing her beauty to freshen and 
sweeten his heart. 

“I suppose it is selfish and narrow,” he presently 
said; “ but I am heartily glad that all of them are gone 
— that we are left alone together, aren’t you ? ” 

She laughed, but she blushed as well, and looked 
away from him as she answered in what she meant for 
a very careless tone : 

“ Oh, I like company and bright talk and the excite- 
ment of numbers ; it exhilarates me. This will be a 
dull old place, now that the party has dwindled down 
to four or five. I hope my father has almost run the 
gamut of his cartridges.” 

“ Not a dull place,” he said with a peculiar emphasis, 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


158 

“ a dreamy, fascinating place, rather. The river yon- 
der, see how it glimmers, and this breeze ; I never was 
so happy at any place as I am here and now. There is 
a sort of mystery in the influence of things around us.” 

She looked at him with a quick inquiry in her clear 
eyes, as if to discover whether or not he was jesting. 
Something in his bold yet tender gaze parried her 
glance and her lids dropped. She drooped her head 
and shoulders a little, too, as if under some suddenly 
imposed burden. 

“ Aren’t you very happy here?” he went on, leaning 
a little toward her. “ I want you to be very happy.” 

“ Oh, yes, I’m always happy. I never was unhappy 
in my life,” she answered with a show of vehemence, 
instead of the careless lightness that she intended 
should appear. “ I’m never serious enough to become 
sad.” 

Moreton looked at her with tender fervor, the power 
of love full upon him, and yet the silly rhyme kept 
ringing in his brain : 

‘ ‘ The light of her eyes, 

And the dew of her lips, 

Where the moth never flies 
And the bee never sips.” 

Truly love-making has all of human nature in it, 
from the grandeur of extreme exaltation down to the 
mere piping of sheerest nonsense ; but the nonsense for 
the time, is just as sweet as any part, so much does it 


A BIT OF LOVE MAKING. 


159 


borrow of the rapture of the occasion. There is 
comedy of a slender sort in it, which it seems a sacrilege 
to separate from the sacred part, and yet we all are 
tempted into poking quiet fun at the big, strong men 
who awkwardly dabble in love’s sweet stream. So few 
of them can come boldly down to the current and at 
once arrest it and have their will of it outright. 

“What would you do if you were poor, like Miss 
Crabb, and had to face the world and struggle for life?” 
he asked with an absurd inconsequence in his manner 
and voice. 

“ I can’t imagine such a thing,” she quickly answered, 
“ I really can’t. It would be very, very hard, no 
doubt. But I sometimes think I might be of more use, 
that my life is quite empty of real value. I shouldn’t 
know how to do any useful thing.” 

“ You might make some one happy. That would be 
good.” 

“ I have no knack ; I am selfish, frivolous, intent 
upon my own happiness,” she said, looking up with a 
bright smile. 

“Just a word, sometimes, is better than any other 
alms,” he continued. 

“ Eleemosynary cheerfulness and breath of charity, 
as our good minister is fond of calling it,” she responded 
with a gay little laugh. “ I do sometimes try to be 
agreeable and bright, just to please people.” 

“ That’s mere social clap-trap, it doesn’t mean any 


1 60 AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 

thing. It must be genuine, don’t you know — come right 
out from the heart. You must really desire to make 
some one happy.” 

There was something in the vehemence of his voice 
and manner that caused her to look into his eyes with 
a quick change from her careless levity to a puzzled 
gravity of expression, that would have amused a disin- 
terested observer. 

“ How much would you do to make me very happy ?” 
he went on, speaking as if the question might be one of 
life and death. “You would like to make me happy, 
wouldn’t you ? ” 

“ Why do you ask that — what ” Her eyes had 

drooped and she made an unavailing effort to lift them 
again to his face. Here was his opportunity. 

“ Because I love you, love you better than all the 
world, Cordelia,” came his hurried response. His arms 
made a quick initial movement, instantly arrested, for 
the place was not just suited to any violent demon- 
strations ; then he added, breathlessly : 

“ Do you love me, Cordelia? ” 

She glanced rapidly around, as if expecting to find 
in the landscape some relief from the embarrassment 
that flooded her cheeks with blushes. Just then, Rey- 
nolds and Mrs. Ransom passed down the pathway 
leading from the mansion to a little landing on the 
river, where a small boat lay moored. They were too 
much absorbed in conversation to notice the lovers, 


A BIT OF LOVE MAKING. 


161 

though they could almost have touched them as they 
went by. Miss Noble remained silent, watching Rey- 
nolds assist his graceful companion into the boat and 
draw in the little painter. Suddenly she looked up and 
very demurely said : 

“ They’re going for a row on the river : why didn’t 
we think of that ? I delight in going out on the 
water.” 

“ You would take a profound delight in any thing just 
now that would help you to avoid answering my ques- 
tion, wouldn’t you ? ” he grumbled. “ You’ve forgotten 
what it was I inquired about, haven’t you ? ” 

She laughed in a low, clear way. Reynolds and Mrs. 
Ransom, lightly startled by the sound, turned their 
faces quickly and waved a greeting, as they glided 
out upon the placid stream. They appeared very 
happy. 

“ I shall not be put aside so lightly,” he went on ; “ I 
can’t bear it. You must answer me, Cordelia.” 

“ Answer you what ? ” 

He sprang to his feet, and stood gazing down at her 
with his face actually pale with emotion. 

“You don’t mean it? You can’t mean to drive me 
from you in this way ? ” he cried, his voice a little 
husky. 

“ Sit down, do, they’re looking at us — they’ll know 
what it is,” she murmured, making a deprecatory ges- 
ture with her hand. 


162 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


He obeyed, saying rather ungraciously as he did 
so : 

“ What if they do know? We needn’t care, they’re no 
better. Reynolds is nearly crazy about her ; he means to 
propose to her as soon as they’re round the curve.” 
He could not help laughing a little at his own absurd- 
ity. But Cordelia pretended to pout. 

“ You should not say such things about Agnes ; she 
doesn’t deserve your levity.” 

“ I didn’t say any harm of her,” he hastened to reply. 

“ I spoke of Reynolds : he is very much in love. You 
do not blame him for thinking a great deal of her — I 
don’t blame him at all. I think it is deuced clever of 
him, don’t you know.” 

She rose as if to go away. 

“ Come, now, turn about is fair: you made me sit 
down again when I got up,” he said, catching her hand 
and gently pulling her down beside him. 

What further was said between them has never been 
gathered from the sweet wind that bore their fragmen- 
tary murmurings away among the old trees and down 
the silvery windings of the river. I presume that, no 
matter how much the circumstances of courtship may 
differ, true love, in the hey-day of youth, or in the vig- 
orous prime of life, has certain constant quantities by 
which it may readily be known ; and one of these is so 
sweet that, to one not personally interested, it narrowly 
misses being entirely too sweet for deliberate discus- 


A BIT OF LOVE MALTING. 


163 


sion. John Ruskin has, I believe, more than suggested 
an amendment to the ordinary methods of love-mak- 
ing, but lovers seem inclined to follow the old, familiar 
rose-scented plan, no matter how silly it may appear to 
superannuated philosophers and art. critics. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


AT THE RUIN. 

R EYNOLDS had been shut away from society for 
so long a time that he had returned, in a degree, 
to the susceptibility and receptivity of extreme youth. 
We grow like what we contemplate, is a very trite 
truth, and he had absorbed much of the outright 
simplicity of the mountaineers, without losing any of 
the character he had long ago formed. Self-knowledge 
may be very valuable, but self-study does not tend 
always toward happiness. One might almost venture 
to say that, in a vast majority of cases, serious self- 
analysis amounts to remorse if nothing worse. More- 
over, one usually chooses solitude in which to erect 
one’s furnace and laboratory of self-criticism, where 
one may make the heat as high and protracted as one 
pleases. The result is usually a mass of unsightly 
slag instead of the fine and precious metal one has 
hoped to turn out. Hence it is that a hermit returning 
to the world after years of seclusion and self-delusion 
finds it a paradise when he had expected to see it a 
hell. Men and women are so much purer and stronger 
and nobler than he had pictured them, and all the 


A I' THE RUIN. 


165 

ways of human social life are so much sweeter and 
fresher than his diseased brain had remembered them 
to be, that he sloughs his crust, like a serpent, and 
comes out a new man. 

The doctrine that evil experiences are ever of value, 
or rather that a baptism in sin ever worked a positive 
good to the recipient, is too dangerous to be received ; 
but it sometimes appears that there is an annealing 
influence exerted on character by the intense heat of 
uncontrollable passions, tempering it at last to the 
highest degree of sensitiveness and susceptibility. 
Reynolds was aware, in a vague way, of the change so 
rapidly going on within him. It was as if his nature 
were putting forth a tremendous spurt of power with 
which to eject from its tissue the evil of the old life. 
What a mystery there is in remorse and repentance 
and reform ! But how much greater the mystery of 
evil, that terrible, invisible acid, combining with all 
the bases of human nature and disintegrating every 
crystal of beauty! How shall the stream of a life, 
once defiled, be purified? The simplest reagent will 
disclose the presence of sin, but what process will 
eliminate it ? 

The Hand that made the mirror must remove the 
spots of tarnish. 

Love is always the gateway of a new life. When its 
purple mists and its wafts of heavenly perfumes come 
upon its victim his whole nature feels as if the ultimate 


i66 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


sources of impulse had been cleansed, sweetened and 
electrified. New needs, new aspirations, fresh hopes 
and the dewy vigor of morning leap into the heart. 
Ah, then how bitter is the memory of misdeeds ! Just 
then if Satan would get behind and forever disappear, 
what a relief! What a joy if all the past could be 
wiped out, as with a sponge, and existence be left to 
date from the advent of love ! 

The meeting of Reynolds and Mrs. Ransom was 
much more than the ordinary contact of life with life, 
whereby the spark of passion is generated ; it was 
significant of a blending of their past experiences as 
well as of the creation of a new life for both. Even on 
the instant when a mutual interest was awakened, their 
minds flashed back over the past. No doubt love 
ought to be prospective always ; but it can not often 
be so. 

Agnes Ransom could not realize that she was a 
widow. It was more as if a very sweet romance of her 
experience had ended in sorrow and disappointment. 
She looked back upon the short space of her wedded 
life with a vision dimmed by mists and shadows. She 
was half aware that her nature had gained much and 
lost little by the experience. It all seemed very sad 
to her, and yet she felt that the sadness was rather an 
atmosphere of the past than of the present. It hovered 
somewhere behind her, it did not affect the future. 
Still there was a protest somewhere, gentle and weak, 


AT THE RUIN. 


167 


but quite troublesome, against this new, strong, imperi- 
ous, wayward love, now rising in her bosom and anon 
sinking away almost into the depths out of which it 
had come. She trembled sometimes with a great fear, 
at other times she abandoned herself to it with a serene 
fullness of content. 

Close to the river’s bank, all overgrown with wild 
vines and darkly shadowed by clustering trees, there 
stood, distant about a mile from the DeKay place, 
an almost shapeless pile of brick and stucco, the ruins 
of a once stately Southern mansion. It had been 
burned, whether by accident or the work of an incen- 
diary is not known. Some tragic legend was con- 
nected with its history — a vague story of hereditary 
feud, bloody encounter, the gloom of crime and the 
solemn hush that follows after violent death. It was nqt 
a story ever told by a DeKay, for it affected the history 
of the family a generation or two ago. The very oldest 
negroes on the plantation knew something of the dark 
outlines of the tragedy ; but they had learned not to 
more than vaguely hint the extent of their knowledge 
by equivocal allusions and dubious generalities. The 
affair dated back to the early Alabama days, when 
slavery was in its most prosperous state in a financial 
way, and when chivalry, so-called, was at its zenith. 
The ruin, with its picturesque walls overgrown with 
vines, was a fitting monument of the decay of medieval 
customs in the South as well as of the downfall of 


i68 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


a once proud and in many ways brave and generous 
family. 

It was towards this pathetic pile that Reynolds pulled 
with vigorous oar-strokes, as he and Mrs. Ransom set 
out upon the river from the little landing at DeKay 
Place. Unconsciously and with the ease that comes 
of great nervous and muscular force, made ready by 
his recent years of healthful habits and out-door train- 
ing, he put such impulse into the little craft as made it 
leap like a skipping fish, leaving a whirling wake behind 
it, gleaming and darkling in sun and shade. He had 
not yet spoken of love. Indeed his heart was so full 
of this new and sweetly stormy passion that he could 
not master it sufficiently to clothe it in words. He 
was ever at the point of speaking and ever faltering 
and holding back his voice. So he found a relief in 
great muscular exertion. It was love thrilling along his 
nerves and sinews that made his arms tireless. He felt 
as if each long, strong sweep of the oars were bearing 
Agnes and him away from all the rest of the world, 
away from the past and into a sweet, shadowy solitude 
like that which the imagination has, in all ages, seen 
swimming on the furthest horizon, and towards which 
all lovers have hopefully but vainly steered their dream- 
ladened barks. 

A sense of unworthiness repressed and almost 
smothered, a strong conscience bound down and enveh 
oped in the fire of passion, these would make them- 


AT THE RUIN. 


169 


selves felt in a dull, heavy, indefinite way. He could 
not shake off for long at a time a consciousness that all 
this deep, sweet, strong happiness flooding his soul to 
bursting, was ephemeral, and would vanish at the touch 
of the first sinister faux pas by which the past might 
be uncovered. 

Mrs. Ransom, in the after part of the boat, sat facing 
Reynolds, her lissome figure in an attitude of almost 
childish carelessness and grace. She was, apparently, 
as unaware of her rare charm of person as was he of his 
immense physical power. It is one of the wholesomest 
of out-door influences that eliminates, for the time, the 
frivolous conventionalities of social life, and establishes 
in their stead something of the freedom of the wind 
and the transparent freshness of running water. Nature, 
by some occult process, reaches our hearts and sponges 
off the sediment of artificial sentiment, so that the 
simpler elements of life are set to work in us without 
any hindrance. Given a boat, a calm, clear river, fine 
weather, a man and a woman, youth, strength, health, 
and what an infinitude of happiness may be expected ! 
It is often the case that human experience is, under 
such circumstances, condensed to the last degree of 
denseness, or expanded to an ethereal tenuity never 
dreamed of in the hot-house narrowness of city life. 
Out-door realities are so strong and dreams are so wide 
and fair where the sun shines and the air is full of balm 
and the water flows with such a liberal, far-going mur- 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


170 

mur. Tragedy has a broader and deeper significance 
enacted without any stage limitations, and comedy 
catches a sparkle from the brooks and the daylight and 
the starlight, never reflected from gas jets and painted 
backgrounds. 

Very little was said between Mrs. Ransom and 
Reynolds in the time it took to reach a place where 
they could land near the ruin, their conversation con- 
fining itself to observations on such little incidents as 
happened during their quick flight. Once a flock of 
wood-ducks sprang in a rapid whirl from the water near 
them and winged their way up the stream, their bright 
colors shining with a peculiar twinkle, as far as the eye 
could follow them. Little shadowy sandpipers ran 
along the sandy margins, here and there, or flew across 
from bank to bank with their comical jerky motion. 
In some places the reeds grew down to the water’s edge 
in dense brakes wherein the hermit thrush and the cat- 
bird could be seen by fitful glimpses. The rapid 
movement of the boat kept changing the point of view, 
and at each change some new arrangement of the trees, 
the cane, the tall dry stalks of water grass or of the 
bold banks of the river attracted the eye. 

Reynolds felt the stimulus of his passion tingling in 
his blood. His bronzed cheeks wore a faint flush and 
his eyes were full of earnest, tender light. He stranded 
the prow of the boat on a little crescent of sand at the 
foot of the bluff and helped Mrs. Ransom out. She 


AT THE RUIN, \ 


171 


had directed him where to land, and now he turned to 
her and asked : 

“ Now, how shall we get up to the top of the bluff?” 

“ There is a sort of stairway yonder by that old tree,” 
she answered, pointing with her hand. “ It is badly 
dilapidated, but we can climb it easily.” 

Somewhere, not very far away, they heard the 
booming of General DeKay’s and Mr. Noble’s guns. 
The sport must have been fine, for the shooting was 
rapid. 

They found the stair — a zig-zag flight of crazy steps, 
leading up to the plateau above. In order to reach its 
foot, they had to stoop and creep under the low-hang- 
ing boughs of a tree. Reynolds took hold of her arm 
to help her. On a sudden impulse she freed herself 
from him. A thrill had come with his touch, and 
something like fear took momentary possession of her. 
She fled nimbly up the steps ahead of him, as if she 
meant to escape him entirely. He scarcely noticed her 
start and her haste, for some vines and tangled branches 
hindered him and disturbed his vision. When she 
emerged into the sunlight of the level space on the 
bluff, Mrs. Ransom stopped, ashamed of her foolish 
flight, and turned about just in time to look straight 
into the eyes of Reynolds, as he was surmounting the 
topmost steps. 

“ I beat you climbing,” she exclaimed, her voice 
shaking a little from the effect of her exertion. 


172 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


“ I feared you had left me for good and all,” he 
replied ; “ but how pale you are ! Was your effort too 
violent ? Are you ill? ” 

“ Not at all,” she responded, the negative phrase 
peculiar to the Southern people falling with a sort of 
breathless readiness from her lips. “Am I really 
pale ? ” 

“ Perhaps not,” he said, seeing the rosy light coming 
into her cheeks again. “ I only imagined it ; but it is a 
difficult place to climb, and you came up like a bird. 
You shouldn’t take such risks: it is dangerous.” 

He looked about for the ruin. A tall, heavy chim- 
ney-stack rising above a tangled mass of wild vines 
and trees answered his inquiry. 

“ Come this way,” she said, leading on ; “ there is a 
path, further up the slope, that goes round to the 
entrance.” 

He followed her quick movements, and soon she 
stopped before an arched doorway in the old semi-cir- 
cular transom of which a few pieces of stained glass 
still remained. On either hand stood fragments of 
stuccoed pillars all festooned with vines. She paused 
but for a moment, then went under the arch and passed 
from roofless room to roofless room with the swift, certain 
step of one quite familiar with the place. Every where 
the ivy and wild grape vines had draped the crumbling 
walls and heaps of rubbish, so that, in places, bowers 
as fanciful as those of fairy-land, made a sweet crepus- 


AT THE RUIN . 


173 


cular gloom, though the foliage was mostly gone. He 
tried to reach her side, but her quick turns and elusive 
movements kept her all the time just ahead of him, 
and her sweet voice came back to him, as if tossed to 
him over her shoulder, luring him on and on, in and 
out through the labyrinth of rooms. Once she stopped 
for the merest moment to look out, through a ragged 
opening which had once been a window, down upon 
the placid face of the river. He came close to her and 
bent low to gaze over her shoulder. She felt his 
breath on her neck. 

“ How lovely !” he murmured, in that deep, rich 
voice which always vibrated so strangely in her ears. 
His moment had come. 

“ Lovely,” she echoed, and slipped away, like some 
shy, wild thing afeard of its own voice. 

Reynolds was burning with a desire to speak to her 
of his love, and she, hardly knowing why, felt a sweet 
dread of him. She tripped along through what had 
been a broad hall and turned into an open space where 
some of the walls had crumbled into a great heap 
around the base of the stack of chimneys. Here it 
was that suddenly a man, wild-eyed, shaggy-headed, 
ragged and gaunt, sprang up before her in a menacing 
attitude with a heavy pistol in his hand. She gave one 
little chirruping scream, threw up her arms and sank in 
a crumpled heap to the ground. Reynolds sprang for- 
ward with a loud ejaculation. His movement had all 


174 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


the appearance of a furious attack upon the startled 
ruffian, who, in sheer self-defense, as he thought, raised 
the pistol and fired. Reynolds felt the blow and the 
dull pang of the bullet in his right shoulder. The man 
did not fire again, but turned and fled through the 
nearest opening. It was all so sudden, the whole thing 
happening within the space of half a minute, that no 
one of the actors had time to get more than a glimpse 
of the situation before the act was ended. The ruffian, 
as was afterward ascertained, was a condemned mur- 
derer who had escaped from jail just the night before 
he was to have been hanged. No doubt he was lying 
asleep when the approach of Mrs. Ransom startled him, 
and thinking it was an attempt to recapture him, he 
had fired and fled. The sound of the shot roused Mrs. 
Ransom from her half swoon and she leaped to her 
feet. Reynolds put forth his hand and touched her on 
the arm. 

“ Be calm— don’t get scared, I can protect you,” he 
said, but he could not see her. A cloud was in his 
eyes and a reeling sensation in his brain. 

She looked up into his face and saw how deathly 
white it was. 

“Are you hurt?” she quaveringly asked, taking a 
step nearer him. 

He mumbled some unintelligible answer, felt blindly 
about in the air with his hands, staggered, gasped 
hoarsely, and fell at full length upon the ground, face- 


AT THE RUIN. 


175 


downward, arms outspread, and lay quite still. Sud- 
denly, to Mrs. Ransom, the silence of the place became 
awful, dense, impenetrable. She screamed, but her 
voice seemed not to go a yard from her lips. She 
stood for a moment with clenched hands, her face 
pinched and thin, her eyes fixed upon the prostrate 
form of Reynolds ; then she threw herself down beside 
him and tried with all her might to turn him so that 
she could see his features ; but he was so heavy and 
she so weak that her effort was vain. She called for 
help until her voice became thick with hoarseness. 

“Oh, is he dead?” she wailed, “is he dead? Oh, 
won’t some one come ! Must he die now ! Oh, and I 
love him so — love him so ! ” 

It was as if her grieving words called him back from 
lifelessness, for he moaned, sighed deeply, and by a 
violent struggle turned himself on his side with his face 
toward her. He opened his eyes and looked inquir- 
ingly at her for a time, then he closed them with a 
weak, tremulous motion of the lids. She clasped his 
head in her arms, and summoning all her strength, lifted 
it upon her lap. The blood was beginning to ooze 
through his saturated clothes and trickle on the ground 
beside him. It almost crazed her to see this, but she 
was as powerless as a child to help him. She could 
but bend over him, and, brushing the dark heavy hair 
back from his forehead, where cold beads of sweat had 
risen, kiss him again and again in the ecstasy of her 


176 AT LO VE 'S EXTREMES. 

excitement. He was not unconscious now, but he 
was limp and nerveless, his immense vitality slowly 
gathering itself for the effort to recover equilibrium. 
Faint almost unto death as he was, he felt the thrill 
her kisses sent throughout his frame, and he did not 
note the pain of his ugly wound. 

“ Oh, you must not die, you must not die ! ” she 
wailed, in a sobbing voice. “ Open your eyes for my 
sake, John— for my sake, do you hear, for I love 
you so ! ” 

He heard every word, but he could not open his eyes 
or move his lips, though slowly and surely his strength 
was coming back, despite the rapid loss of blood. 

The pistol ball was a very large one and it had made 
a bad, almost fatal wound, having passed through his 
shoulder and a part of his chest, barely missing the 
lung. The shock had had a paralyzing effect, causing 
the insensibility from which he was rallying. 

It was a striking picture they made grouped against 
the dark back-ground of the old wall, with the dim 
light falling over them. If a broken spear and a cloven 
helmet had rested hard by, it would, have served well 
for a tableau of medieval days, a lady nursing the 
head of her fallen knight within the crumbling ruins 
of some battered castle. 

“Why did we ever come here! Oh, love, my own 
love, open your eyes ! Speak to me : say you will not 
die, you will not die ! ” 


A T THE RUIN. 


*77 


Her words, so insistent, so despairing and so pas- 
sionate, filled his consciousness with an all-satisfying 
sense of happiness. He could scarcely understand why 
she should not be willing to let him lie quietly and 
listen to her, for he had not recovered himself suf- 
ficiently to be able to grasp the reality of her suffering 
or of his own condition. 

“ Speak to me, speak to me,” she kept reiterating, 
until at last, like one freeing himself reluctantly from 
a sweet dream, he moved his lips, making no sound at 
first, but presently saying : 

“ Where are you, Agnes ? ” 

His voice was so strange and so low that she could 
not catch his words. She bowed her head so that her 
face almost touched his. 

“ What is it — what did you say ? ” she tenderly asked. 

He put up his left hand and swept it over her cheek 
and down along her shoulder. Then, as his wound 
began to pain him, he groaned in a suppressed way. 

“ What ails me? What — ah, the shot — he hit me, I 
know — I remember now,” he said, beginning to gather 
strength. “ Let me sit up.” 

With a strong effort he raised himself to a sitting 
posture and smiled feebly. 

“ I have called and called, but no one will come. 
What shall we do?” she cried, wringing her hands and 
gazing helplessly at him. “Oh, why did we ever come 
here?” 


178 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


“ Be calm, darling,” he said, looking fondly at her, 
the wan smile on his face growing more intense. “ I 
will show you that I am a man worthy of your love.” 
Then he arose and stood up, tall and beautiful in his 
strength, before her, seeming to defy his wound and its 
pain, though his face was pale as death. 

“ Come,” he added, “ let us go to the boat and return 
to the house. Come, I am strong now, and I love you, 
Agnes, my own little woman — come with me.” 

He caught her with his unhurt arm and drew her 
hard against his side. With a swift, firm tread he went 
with her down to the landing, never faltering or waver- 
ing until he had fixed himself in the stern of the boat 
and directed her how to paddle out to the middle of 
the stream. 

All this time he had been losing blood and his pain 
had been excruciating. He had made a grand effort, 
and now the reaction came with a power that he could 
not resist. He sank back with his head resting on his 
arm and lay there as white and lifeless as if dead. She 
thought him dead, and sat there numb and motionless, 
letting the boat drift with the gentle current. Every 
thing about her appeared shadowy, misty, unreal. Her 
heart scarcely beat. Why was it that, in the midst of 
this awful trial, there came to her mind a vivid memory 
of the short romance of her married life down on the 
old plantation by Mariana ? Some of those days were 
dreamily happy ones with her wild boy husband — the 


AT THE RUIN. 


179 


days before discontent and trouble came. Why would 
the reckless blue eyes and curling, yellow hair waver 
before her, between the strong, pallid features of this 
man whom she now loved with such fervor ? 

Slowly the boat drifted on in the sunlight, between 
the reed-covered banks, bearing its strange load down 
toward the DeKay place. It was a dark touch with 
which to end so charming an idyl as the past few days 
had been ; but life in the South favors the tragic and 
the melodramatic : it is the life of passion and of sudden 
changes. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A WHISPER IN THE CABIN. 


NE day, while Reynolds was gone to General 



Dekay’s, White came home from Birmingham 


perfectly sober and with no gambling story to tell. 
Milly met him at the gate, as usual, with the same piti- 
ful look of patient inquiry in her eyes. He chucked 
her under the chin and in an uncommonly cheery voice 


said : 


“ He air cornin’ home right away soon, Milly, I hev 
hearn from ’im straight. Go an’ drive up the steer fer 
me, won’t ye ? I want er haul er jag er pine-knots 
purty soon.” 

“ I don’t b’lieve he air a cornin’, no sich a thing. I 
dremp he wer’ married, an’ thet’s a sign o’ death. How 
d’ye know he air a cornin’ ? ” She spoke almost pet- 
tishly, looking fixedly at her father, whose pale eyes 
wandered aimlessly from object to object. 

“ I seed Mr. Noble, thet banker down ther’ : he hev 
come back. He said ter me, says he, ‘ The Colonel, he 
an’ Mr. Moreting air cornin’ nex’ week,’ thet’s what he 
says ter me.” 

Milly let her eyes fall and began digging in the 
ground with the toe of one of her shoes. 


A WHISPER IN THE CABIN. 181 

“Thet young lady, thet Miss Noble down ther’, hes 
she kem back?” she presently asked. 

“ La, yes, she hev,” quickly replied White. “ Bless 
yer life, yes, she kem with ’er pap. Oh, yes, she kem 
too, she did.” 

“ What meks John stay so long?” 

“ Oh, him ? w’y he’s a havin’ a stavin’ ole time er 
shootin’ quails an’ a drinkin’ er fine liquor an’ er smokin’ 
good seegairs. Don’t yer go to blamin’ him fer stayin’ 
awhile down ther’ : hit air a good place ter be at, yer 
better think.” 

“ Seems like he mought never come,” she murmured, 
and there were tears in her eyes as she started to go 
and fetch the ox. 

White went into the house and shut the door. 

“ I hev a bad secret to tell ye,” he said to his wife, 
“ an’ I don’t wan’t yer ter let Milly know airy breath 
about it, nuther.” 

“ Well, less yer what it air.” 

“Ye won’t tell Milly?” 

“ Nairy word.” 

“ Sarting an’ sure ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, the Colonel he air shot.” 

“ Shot?” 

“ He air.” 

“ Shot?” 

“ He air, sarting.” 


182 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


“ Goodness ! an’ who tole ye ? ” 

“ Thet banker, down ther’ at town, Mr. Noble, he tole 
me. Hit wer’ a feller 'at broke jail 'at done hit, a out- 
dacious murderer, down yer at some other town, 'at 
wer a goin’ ter be hung, an’ some friend of his’n helped 
'im ter break jail an’ give 'im a pistol, an’ he put out 
through the country. Hit seems, f’om what thet 
banker down yer says, 'at the Colonel were a galivantin' 
off to some lonesome ole house wi’ a widder 'oman, 'an 
thet feller he wer in ther an’ jes’ shot ’im down.” 

“Goodness alive! Hit didn’t kill 'im? The Colo- 
nel he hain’t dead ?” 

“ No, not dead, but he air bad off. He air laid up 
in bed. He hev got a hole through ’im.” 

Mrs. White began filling her pipe with great energy, 
her husband following her example. There was a space 
of silence, then he said : 

“ We hev got ter lie ter Milly fer all thet’s out. 
Hit’ll never do fer her ter know it ’at the Colonel’s hurt. 
She’d go ’stracted.” 

“She mought jest as well. Hit air no use er foolin’, 
he’s not goin’ ter hev ’er.” 

“Hev her! Hev her ! w’at upon the airth are ye 
talkin’ ’bout?” 

“She loves ’im.” 

“ Milly ? She love ? She love him ? ” 

“ Ye-es, she-e lo-ove hi-im ! ” drawled Mrs. White in 
a high key, wagging her head with each word. 


A WHISPER IN THE CABIN. 183 

White looked at her in utter consternation. 

“ Thet leetle silly gal love him ? W’y she air no 
more’n a tom-tit er a hominy-bird ter be a lovin’ the 
Colonel. Shorely she hain’t gone an’ been no sich a 
dang fool es thet ! ” 

“ She hev.” 

“ How d’ye know? ” 

“ Hain’t I got no eyes, ner years?” 

“Ye hev, sarting, an’ a tongue.” 

“ Now, smarty ! Ye think ye’ve said somethin’ ! ” 

“Beg parding. But this yer stuff ’bout love, hit air 
a bad thing. I commence ter see into some er Milly’s 
cur’us notions, ef thet air’s the case. But dang ef I 
b’lieve sech a thing.” 

“ Well, hit air the case, an’ there’s more ter come. Ye 
hain’t hearn the wo’st part.” 

“An’ what d’ye mean by thet? ” 

“ I mean a heap, thet’s w’at I mean.” 

“ A heap er what ? ” 

“ Ef ye’ll promerse me on yer wordy honor ter keep 
still tell I say at ye may go free, I’ll tell yer w’at.” 

“ I promerse, sarting.” 

“ On yer wordy honor ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m erfeard ye’ll go ter bein’ a fool an’ makin’ a fuss 
’fore I whant ye to. ’Cause ye see, hit mayn’t be es 
bad es it mought.” 

As Mrs. White said this, White looked searchingly 


1 84 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


into her face, and what he saw there caused him to 
move uneasily and puff his tobacco smoke nervously. 

“ What is this yer what yer a hintin’ at, anyhow?” 
he demanded, almost fiercely. 

“I hain’t erbleeged ter tell ye, an’ I’ll jest never do 
hit er tall, ef yer a goin’ to be er fool an’ high-rantin’ 
aroun* like er eejet er somethin’.” 

“ Didn’t I promerse ye? Hain’t thet enough? Ef 
hit tain’t, what d’ye want me to do ? ” 

“ W’y I whant ye ter never say er word ter nobody 
’bout w’at I tell ye, tell I say so, not a single word, nor 
do a thing ’bout hit of any kind. Do ye promerse? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ On yer sacurd wordy honor? ” 

“ Yes, dang it all, go on ! ” 

“ Now I’r a goin’ ter tell ye somethin’ at air orful, an’ 
I don’t know w’at to do erbout hit. But ’member, yer 
promersed me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Ye’ll keep right still, an’ never say a word, er do a 
single thing erbout hit ? ” 

“Yes, I tole ye thet, long ago, ’bout a dozen times. 
Go on, an’ say what yer a goin’ to.” 

They were looking at each other, as people do who 
are about to experience some grave domestic crisis. 
Mrs. White’s sallow face had suddenly taken on a hot 
flush, and her eyes looked worried and hollow. 

“ I d’know hardly how ter say hit with my mouth,” 


A WHISPER IN THE CABIN. 185 

she falteringly began. “ I wush I never hed a been 
born’d, no how ! ” 

Tears came into her eyes and her lips quivered. 

White leaned over close to her, taking the pipe from 
his mouth, and said in a low, hoarse voice : 

“ What air the matter, wife ? ” 

“ Oh, a heap, a heap air the matter ! ” she sobbed. 

White put his hand on her shoulder and brought his 
ear close to her lips. 

“ Tell me now, I want er know,” he gently and 
gravely urged. 

She whispered something in a rapid, sobbing way. 
Not more than a dozen words, but White’s face shriv- 
eled as if with a great heat. He drew back from her 
and glared like a wild beast. Not a sound came from 
his writhing lips. His thin jaws quivered. 

“ ’Member yer sacurd wordy honor,” said the woman. 
“ Ye promersed me, ye know.” 

He got up and tramped aimlessly around the room. 
Presently he took down his long flint-lock rifle from its 
rack over the door, and blew into its muzzle. 

“ Ye’ll not brek yer wordy honor?” she insisted. 

He put the gun back and came and sat down by her 
again. Just then Milly opened the door and entered 
the room carrying her coarse sun-bonnet in her hand. 
The exercise of fetching the ox down from his brows- 
ing place on the mountain side had put a bright color 
in her cheeks, and the wind had been tossing her pale, 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


1 86 

straw-gold hair so that it hung in elfish tangles about 
her neck and shoulders. She scarcely glanced at her 
father and mother. 

“ I hitched ’im out ther’,” she said, referring to the 
ox, and passing on into the kitchen, went by that 
round-about way into Reynolds’ room. She was very 
sly, but they heard her moving about, and knew she 
was once more re-arranging his things. 

They looked at each other with something of that 
hopeless, dazed expression often observed in the eyes 
of the lower animals when hurt to death. Milly had 
left the outer door open and the cool mountain air 
poured in, rustling vaguely such loose articles as its 
current could stir. 

Little more was said between the man and his wife, 
for there seemed nothing to say. A cloud had settled 
over their compressed, barren lives. Nothing in their 
natures was ready or flexible. They stared at fate, as 
they stared at each other, with the hopelessness of utter 
bewilderment. 

Days went by, days of that languid, cloudless weather 
which comes to those mountains in early February, and 
the little household of the cabin went through the dry, 
spiritless round of duties, as if some spell had fallen 
upon them. True there was no marked visible change 
in their way of life ; that was impossible. The limita- 
tions of human action nowhere else are set with such 
rigid immutability as they are, and perhaps always will 


A WHISPER IN THE CABIN. 187 

be, in those cramped, unfertile, almost barren mountain 
regions of the South. No advance, no retrogression (save 
where here and there a railroad brings its little whisky 
centers), all is stagnant, dull, dry, hopeless poverty. 
Illiteracy, sterility, and that stubborn conservatism 
which is born of them, rest like an atmosphere around 
those poor people. They move and breathe and are 
stolidly content. 

When a month had passed and Reynolds had not 
come, Milly, who had been kept in ignorance of the 
true state of affairs, began to show stronger signs of 
disappointment. She was restless and anxious, wan- 
dering about the house or leaning upon the gate, silent, 
sad-eyed, expectant and hopeless by turns, a source of 
deep trouble to her parents. 

Now and then White attempted to cheer her up, but 
the words seemed to come dead and meaningless from 
his dry lips when he would say: 

“ He air a havin’ a outdacious good time down 
ther’,he air, an’ he don’t like ter quit off yet. Jest ye 
wait a day er two an’ ’en ye’ll see ’m a cornin’ up yer, 

Milly, a cornin’ up yer ” his voice would most 

usually fail him, but he would go on: “Yes, he air 
cornin’ back purty soon, when he hev hed all the 
shootin’ he ken git.” 

Such statements, reiterated so often, lost a large part 
of their reassuring power, but Milly liked to hear them, 
and they were the best that he could do. 


CHAPTER XV. 


A DISCLOSURE, 


HE day following that on which Reynolds received 



1 his wound brought letters to Moreton from his 
home in England, with intelligence of the sudden 
death of his father, and a request for him to come at 
once. This summons was so urgent and peremptory 
that nothing short of immediate departure could be 
thought of. So he went ; but not without Cordelias 
promise to become his wife, and not before he had 
reached a full understanding with Mr. Noble on the 
subject. It was hard for him to break away from the 
sweet meshes in which he was entangled, and hard for 
him to leave Reynolds lying there pale and emaciated, 
with little more than the breath of life in him ; but 
he could not stay. He promised to come back within 
two months, little thinking at the time that he would 
never see Birmingham again, or at best for some years 
to come. But so it was. When he reached England he 
found that the best interests of his father’s estate 
required the sale of the American property, and that 
he would have to give his entire attention to the 
home affairs. 


A DISCLOSURE . 


189 


Soon after Moreton’s departure Mr. Noble, following 
the fashion of thrifty Americans, seized upon a most 
favorable offer and changed his place of abode to New 
York City, where he became the chief of a strong 
banking establishment in which he had hitherto held a 
subordinate interest. So that by the time that Rey- 
nolds was beginning to gather strength and to forge 
well past the point of danger from his hurt, he was 
left alone with the DeKay household. No invalid ever 
had more careful nursing or had thrown around him 
more charming influences. General DeKay gave his 
entire time and attention to ministering to the needs 
of his guest, appearing to feel that, in some way, as a 
host, he had been careless and thus to blame for the 
almost fatal misfortune to one of his party. He had 
formed a great liking for Reynolds, beginning no doubt 
with the young man’s excellent shooting in the first 
day’s sport, and made stronger by the manly qualities 
and magnetic influence he possessed in a marked 
degree ; and this liking shaped itself during Reynolds’ 
illness into an attachment very rarely engendered 
between men. 

Mrs. Ransom, after the first great shock of the adven- 
ture had spent its force, exhibited a quiet courage and 
fortitude in strong contrast to her girlish weakness up at 
the ruin. She was tireless in her efforts, hopeful, even 
when the doctors doubted, and cheerful when every 
one else appeared ready to despair. She seemed to 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


190 


rely, with perfect confidence, on Reynolds’ power to 
overcome the effect of the hurt, and when his enor- 

' 

mous vitality began to assert itself, she went about 
the house with a gentle smile on her lips and a serene 
light in her beautiful eyes that told how her heart 
rejoiced. To know that he was under the same roof 
with her and that he loved her and that he was 
getting well, filled her with a contentment little short 
of perfect happiness. She was not an intellectual 
woman, as the phrase goes ; she knew little of the 
world’s philosophies and sophistries, but she was a true 
woman, full of feminine sentiment, cleverness and 
earnestness : shy, wary, elusive, and yet outright and 
artless, at times, as any child. Her beauty was of that 
rarer Southern type which is the opposite, in most 
features, of the fiery, passionate, voluptuous, tropical 
model which has been unjustly copied into art and 
literature as the representative one. 

Beauty that shrinks from self-advertisement and 
delights in blooming in a sheltered place where the 
light is never over-strong, secretes such essence and 
fragrance, takes on such modest and delicate color, and 
holds about it an atmosphere so subtly individual, that 
it is not within the power of brush or pen to portray it 
so easily and effectually as it may that other and 
coarser and possibly more vital sort. It is this beauty 
that a pink ribbon to-day or a bunch of violets to-mor- 
row, or any other simple bit of adornment, seems so 


A DISCLOSURE . 


I 9 I 


perfectly suited to as to appear a part of the wearer. 
If Agnes Ransom was rather below the best womanly 
stature, the casual observer would not have noticed it, 
for her bearing was high and her development strik- 
ingly balanced, or rather, so evenly balanced as not to 
be striking, and her movements had the smoothness 
and rhythm of a perfect lyric. She was a woman whose 
love would be of lasting value to a true man, and to 
love whom would generate nothing lawless or short- 
lived in the masculine nature. If Cleopatra stands as 
one type of eastern beauty and passion, Ruth stands as 
another. A woman like Agnes Ransom may be taken 
as representing very fairly a certain class of Southern 
women who carry about with them, even in old age, a 
girlishness and simplicity, combined with a shyness and 
exclusiveness often mistaken for either prudery or un- 
friendliness. Plantation life is, to an extent, a lonely 
one in a climate where it is possible and pleasing to 
spend much time out of doors, and where all the influ- 
ences of out-door nature tend to generate repose. One 
can not but observe what seems to be the effect of these 
influences in determining the physical and mental 
contour of the Southern girl. She is slender, well 
developed, lithe, graceful, rather inclined to repose, 
not strikingly intellectual, has strong domestic inclina- 
tions and bears about with her an air of provincial inno- 
cency and naivete that has a marked flavor of the isola- 
tion and the freedom of the plantation. Mrs. Ransom 


9 2 


A T LO VE'S EXTREMES. 


had been very little in city society ; a winter in New 
Orleans and a few visits to Savannah limiting her 
experience beyond that obtained from a residence in 
the dreamy, isolated little old place of her birth, Pensa- 
cola. She was not a Catholic, but the rudiments of her 
education had been obtained in a convent, and some- 
thing of that demure quietness and quaintness of man- 
ner characteristic of the nun had remained with her. 
No doubt her short and trying married experience had 
modified her charms of person and character to an in- 
teresting extent, adding an inexpressible value to her 
beauty. A trace of lingering sadness, slight but always 
present, gave a mild emphasis to the purity of her face 
and the low music of her voice. Such a woman could 
not fail to touch the heart of a fervid and passionate 
man like Reynolds, whose whole nature had been 
introverted for years, and whose life had been so long 
repressed and stagnant. 

During the half delirium of his fever, while the inflam- 
mation of his wound was at its worst, he lay and 
watched her come and go, his heated vision making an 
angel of her about whose ethereally lovely form halos 
and rainbow colors played fantastic tricks. Sometimes 
the apparition was double, and then one of the angels 
took the form of poor little Milly White, whose haunt- 
ing, hungry face flashed with a heavenly light. But as 
he grew stronger and the fever left him, it was Agnes 
Ransom, the pale, sweet, earnest little woman, that 


A DISCLOSURE. 


193 


controlled his every thought. He was content to lie 
there and patiently wait on nature’s slow work so long 
as she hovered near. He felt securely fixed in her 
love. Every word, that in the stress of agony, she had 
uttered up there in the ruin, lay like some divine germ 
in his heart, growing and strengthening with every 
moment. He did not seek to have her say more and 
he said little himself. When she fetched flowers from the 
out-door conservatory, grand cream-white and blush 
camellias, roses, jasmine and violets, and arranged them 
on the odd little mahogany table by his bedside, he 
would whisper some tender phrase of thanks and love, 
and then she would sit by the window and read aloud 
to him some forgotten romance, such as is to be found 
in every ancient Southern library. Happy invalid ! to 
have such balm for his wound ! And so the days of 
his convalescence drew by, not in pain and fretfulness 
and impatience, but freighted with the richest gifts of 
love. He was like one in some favored nook of fairy 
land, realizing the tenderest visions of dreams. 

One day, near the first of March, when he had grown 
able to sit propped up on a sofa by a window, whence 
he could look out over the broad landscape to where 
the sky came down to the tufted woods, or turn his 
eyes upon short silvery bits of the river, he said to her: 

“ I shall soon be able to go away. I feel my strength 
coming back with every breath.” 

She looked up from the needlework that she chanced 


i 9 4 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


just then to have in hand, and, with one of her slow, 
sweet smiles, shook her head. 

“You must not begin to hurry. You must be 
patient, ever so patient. A moment of haste might 
cause a month of trouble. You can not afford to run 
any risks.” 

“Oh, I am patient,” he replied. “I really find myself 
dreading to get well, selfish wretch that I am. Do you 
observe that I never take into consideration the 
immense trouble I am causing all of you ? I think of 
nothing but the charmed life I am living — the sweet 
comforts I am receiving.” 

“ I really believe you are getting well,” she said. 
“When you talk in that strain I know you are but 
trying to hide a longing for your mountain air and the 
freedom of your hermitage.” 

“You do me wrong,” he responded, with an earnest 
resonance in his voice. “I am so content to be as I 
am that when I go to sleep I do not even dream of 
being well.” 

“ I am glad of it, for the doctor says that a quiet 
mind is the best salve for a healing wound.” 

“You had better not convince me that the doctor is 
right, for I might be tempted to get restless in order 
to prolong my period of delicious convalescence. 
Beware, if you don’t want me lolling in easy chairs or 
propped on cushions and pillows for you to minister to 
all the season.” 


A DISCLOSURE. 


195 


“ Oh I shall know it if you begin to take on the air 
of a professional invalid, and shall discharge you at 
once,” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “You won’t 
be interesting as a — a sham ! I hate shams and deceits 
and hidden things of every sort.” 

He looked at her with such a sudden, though barely 
noticeable change of expression in his eyes, that her 
quick intuition told her of some serious thought that 
had leaped, unbidden and unwelcome, into his mind. 

“ Hidden things,” he said, with a peculiar smile. 
“ Hidden things are often much better hidden than dis- 
closed, and it is a mercy to the world that secretive- 
ness is one of the strongest elements of human 
nature.” 

“ Perhaps so,” she said, growing grave and thought- 
ful. “ But it would be so much better if there were 
never any need to exercise one’s secretive faculties.” 

“ Oh, a dormant faculty would be contrary to the 
economy of nature. Even confession catches a precious 
fragrance from the transgression long hidden away. 
Conscience would not even be ornamental, much less 
useful, if it bore no treasure of sins known to it only.” 
He spoke in an airy, idle manner, but there went with 
his tones a ring of something not quite pleasing. 

“You shock me,” she exclaimed, in perfect earnest- 
ness, a cloud gathering in her eyes. “ I hope you do 
not believe in such ugly and dangerous doctrines.” 

Immediately he gathered in his straying thoughts 


196 AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 

and crushed down the memory that was nagging at his 
consciousness. He felt with sudden clearness how 
easily he might turn away from him the confiding earn- 
estness of this sensitive woman, and attract from her in- 
stead the interest born of a doubtful sort of fascination. 

“ I don’t believe in them,” he smilingly answered. 
“ I was merely giving rein to an idle whim of the 
moment. On the contrary, I believe in perfect frank- 
ness in all things. Confession and forgiveness are 
together the safety-valve of society, as they are chief 
among the Christian virtues.” 

“ Yes,” she said, with a sort of relief in her tone. 
“There is as much to ask as to grant in that law. I 
could not quite respect myself if I should deceive any 
one, and I should feel it a triumph of duty over the 
strongest bias of my nature if I should thoroughly for- 
give one who had willfully deceived me.” 

“But you would forgive such an one,” he hastily 
exclaimed, looking almost eagerly into her eyes. 

“I should feel it incumbent upon me to try with all 
my might,” she responded. 

“One who would deceive you in a matter of any 
moment,” he observed, with a warmth and vehemence 
that fairly startled her, “ would deserve never to know 
forgiveness. He would be a monster outside the limi- 
tations of the Christian code.” 

“You shouldn’t say that,” she replied, a pink spot 
appearing on either cheek. “ It would be a great deal 


A DISCLOSURE. 


*97 


worse to deceive some one more ignorant and much 
weaker than I. I have had many opportunities, denied 
to a large number of young women. I ought to know 
better how to evade the evils of falsehood and 
deceit.” 

Reynolds did not speak for some minutes. A swell 
of the fragrant south wind came through the window, 
and the first mocking bird of the season was singing in 
a magnolia tree at the further angle of the house. The 
drowsy charm of spring’s earliest stirrings hovered in 
the sky, the air, the far-spreading fields and the shim- 
mering glimpses of water. Something like the warn- 
ing of a distant, scarcely audible voice was ringing in 
his ears. Below his dreamy happiness he could feel the 
beginnings of a vague uneasiness. 

“ I know, I know,” he presently said, and he did not 
realize the almost brutal directness of his words, 
“yours was a bitter and burning disappointment. You 
deserved every thing that you hoped for, nothing that 
you received.” 

Her face grew pale and flushed at once, so that the 
spot on either cheek shone like carmine on a milk-white 
ground. She looked helplessly at him with her lips 
slightly parted and her eyes beaming, as if through a 
haze. 

“ Oh, I have pained you ! ” he exclaimed, with such 
a penitent and sorrowful intonation that she made a 
weak effort to smile. “ Forgive me,” he went on rap- 


198 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


idly. “ I seem in an unfortunate groove to-day. You 
know I would not wound you for the world.” 

“ It relieves me that you have said what you have,” 
she replied, after a pause, “ for it tells me that you 
know my past. I wanted you to know, and I could not 
tell you. I did not see how I ever could begin or 
how ” 

“ Let it pass, let it go by like the wind,” he mur- 
mured ; “the future is all ours, we will make it as pure 
and lovely as the sky yonder, won't we, love?” 

She crossed her hands in her lap and smiled on him 
with tears in her eyes. How grand and beautiful he 
appeared to her, reclining there, with his stalwart limbs 
outstretched and his manly face beaming with love. 
It was a quick, uncontrollable impulse that caused her 
to say, with a tender tremor in her voice: 

“ I wanted you to know that I loved him and that if 
he were alive now I would still love him, notwithstand- 
ing all that has happened.” 

“Yes, yes, that is all right, all right,” he quickly 
responded. “ It is sweet of you to feel so ; but he is — 
he is not alive, you know, and — ” 

“ Sometimes I have dreamed that it is not true — that 
he is not dead, but may be living yet. I never could 
get the particulars, the country was in such turmoil and 
he was so far away. Somehow the thought has haunted 
me that some day he will come back.” 

A strange grim look settled on Reynolds’ face. 


A DISCLOSURE. 


199 


“ He will never come back,” he said. 

“ No,” she replied, “ I know he will not. It is fool- 
ish for me to allow the thought to enter my mind, but 
it will, and I can not drive it out.” 

“ You must, Agnes, you must,” he exclaimed with a 
rush of passion, “ for my sake, love, for my sake.” 

She sat for a moment in silence, and then, as the 
tears welled up afresh in her tender eyes, she replied : 

“ You know how gladly I would, but I can not. It 
grows upon me since — since I have known you, and it 
will not be banished. Sometimes I find myself actually 
going to the door to look — ” 

“ Hush ! Oh, Agnes, I can not bear it,” he cried, his 
face growing pale with extreme excitement. “ My 
God ! I shall have to tell you all.” 

“Tell me all?” she plaintively, inquiringly mur- 
mured, looking wonderingly at him, for something in 
his voice, his face, his manner had given to his words 
a mysterious power. 

“Yes, I will tell you, though it drive me from you 
forever. I see that I must, that it is my duty.” He 
paused and hesitated. “ I know,” he went on, “ that I 
am rushing into the dark, but I trust you, Agnes, and 
I know you will do right — you will do no hasty thing. 
Remember, oh, remember how I love you.” 

“ I can not understand — what is it you mean ? — 
what — ” 

“ No, you can not understand, but you will ; it 


200 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


requires but a sentence.” Again he faltered, and with 
his eyes fixed upon hers in a way that almost terrified 
her, seemed to be rapidly choosing his words before 
continuing. 

“ I am the man who fought with your husband, and — ” 

“ No, no, no ! ” she exclaimed, holding her hands out 
toward him, her face ghastly. 

“ Yes,” he resumed, “yes, it is so. He was to blame. 
He forced it upon me. I could not escape him. He 
would have killed me.” 

She let her hand fall in her lap and sat in a helpless, 
horrified attitude. 

“ You will hate me now, Agnes, but I have disclosed 
my secret and my dreadful duty is done. For the sake 
of my great love, say no bitter word.” 

She did not speak. How could she? Such a dis- 
closure coming so suddenly and unexpectedly and from 
his lips, crushed her into that silence which is next to 
the silence of death. 

He trembled now and his voice broke as he said : 

“ Do you see how hard it is ? I refused to fight with 
him, because I did not believe in the practice of duel- 
ing, and then he forced an encounter in the street of 
San Antonio. I did every thing to avoid him, but I 
could not. I had to — to do what I did. Can you 
comprehend, Agnes?” 

Still she remained speechless, motionless, bowed 
down and awfully pale. 


A DISCLOSURE. 


201 


“ I don’t want to make any unmanly excuses — I 
would spare him for your sake ; but he was all in the 

wrong, and it would be ” 

She stopped him with a quick gesture. 

“ I can not hear this now — I am too weak and ex- 
cited. I must go. Excuse me. I must go.” She arose 
almost with a spring and passed swiftly out of the room. 

A feeling of desolation swept, like a breath of noisome 
air, through the breast of Reynolds. It was as if the 
whole world had become a desert and his life a dreary, 
void waste. And yet there was a sense of relief, as if 
a great load had been cast aside. A load indeed, but 
not all the load he carried. He tried in vain to feel 
that his whole duty was done. He hid his face in his 
hands, but he could not shut out the truth. His whole 
past life lay like a fiercely illuminated panorama under 
his inward gaze. Ah, by what a zig-zag path, through 
what torments, had been his course ! And how he had 
always panted for happiness ! Must it end here ? He 
raised his head and smiled in a way that would have 
been terrible to see. He clenched his hands, his eyes 
flamed. All the melodramatic fierceness and fervor of 
the old South had come upon him. He was ready 
with desperate courage to fight all the world. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


CONVALESCENT. 

M RS. RANSOM kept her room for several days. 

The shock she had received from Reynolds’ con- 
fession carried with it something more than the pre- 
dicament might at first view imply. She had loved 
her husband with all that romantic fervor characteristic 
of girlhood in a warm climate. He was a handsome 
youth, bright, impulsive, brave, passionate, reckless, 
holding her to him by that strange fascination, which 
we all know but can not account for, exerted by the 
bad over the good. When he had appeared to desert 
her she was not surprised, and the news of his death by 
murder saddened without shocking her beyond endur- 
ance. With the lapse of time the effect of her trouble 
had softened and faded ; but she had never ceased to 
remember with a warmth of devotion, more of the 
imagination than of the heart, perhaps, the lover and 
the husband of her romantic girlhood. To be sure it 
had grown to seem no more than a tender dream, that 
period of love and happiness ending in gloom, but its 
mory haunted her. 

nolds had in some way thrilled her life with 


CONVALESCENT. 


203 


something more potent than that girlish adoration with 
which she had honored her boyish husband. His influ- 
ence over her was so strange and so new to her experi- 
ence, so sweet and yet so masterful, so overwhelming. 
His love had shown her how little she had ever known 
of love before, love in its highest and perfectest devel- 
opment. 

But this dreadful discovery — this dark, strange con- 
fession, fell upon her just at the time when it could 
have the effect of darkening as with the shadow of both 
crime and death the whole of her life. It seemed a 
stroke of fate so malignant, so merciless, so far-reach- 
ing, so unutterably terrible. 

Reynolds suffered, but not as she did. He was 
gloomy, impatient, restless, but his wound continued to 
heal rapidly and his bodily strength hourly increased. 
His physical constitution was so elastic and vigorous 
that nothing, it seemed, could long disturb its equilib- 
rium. Mentally, however, he was a man of extremes, 
surging to the furthest stretch of the tether in whatever 
direction impelled. Now he was in the deepest pit 
of despondency. The whole light of life had gone 
out. 

As if to render his state more dreary by contrast, 
the weather waxed with sudden fervor into all the 
golden splendor of a semi-tropical spring. A sprink- 
ling of pale green tassels and tender leaflets appeared 
on certain deciduous trees, and the grasses peculiar 


204 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


the region began to shoot up bright spikes in the 
warmer spots of the brown fallow fields. A dainty- 
woody odor pervaded the air and the mocking birds 
and brown thrushes sang gayly in the old trees about 
the mansion. The sky assumed a hue of such rich, 
tender azure as is observed nowhere save in the low 
country in especially favorable weather. And the river 
(what stream is more beautiful than the Alabama?) 
seemed to go by with some rhythmic impulse but half 
repressed in its broad, almost silent current. 

Left much alone during these days, Reynolds natu- 
rally enough indulged in retrospection ; but his thoughts 
rarely went further back than to that tragedy in the far 
West which had let fall upon his life the almost insuf- 
ferable shadow — a shadow rendered doubly dense by its 
effect upon his present prospects. Often his gloomy 
reflections stopped at the mountain cabin and lingered 
with its inmates. The face and form of Milly White, 
once so meaningless to him, were rapidly assuming a 
significance that would not be ignored. Even his deep 
passion for Agnes Ransom and the brooding dread of 
its hopelessness now, could not shut away the accusing, 
vaguely insistent eyes of the little mountain girl. The 
isolation of that lonely plantation house gave him no 
sense of separation from the sources of his trouble. 

One day, it was quite early in the morning, Uncle 
Mono, the old negro musician, came along in the plat 

’t\v the window of the room in which Reynolds sat, 


CONVALESCENT. 


205 


and chancing to glance up, doffed his dilapidated hat 
and said : 

“ Mo’nin’, boss, how’s ye cornin’ on dis mo’nin’, 
sah?” 

“Oh, very well, Uncle Mono, thank you,” responded 
Reynolds, smiling mechanically down on the black, 
wrinkled face so queerly ornamented with its shocks of 
almost snow-white wool. “ How is Uncle Mono ? ” 

“ Po’ly, boss, po’ly. Got some ’dictions in de spine 
ob de back, an’ los’ my ap’tite some. Ole dahkey no 
'count no mo’ no how. Done see all my bes’ days long 
'go, boss.” 

Mono had a long-handled hoe on his shoulder. He 
was a sturdy, well-fed looking old fellow, with any thing 
but unhappiness in his shrewd, deep-set eyes. 

“What are you up to this morning, Mono?” Rey- 
nolds idly inquired, leaning at ease on the window-sill. 

“ Gwine ter plant some watermillions, boss ; got some 
pow’ful good seed yah, got ’em outer a watermillion 
what wus a million fo’ sho’. I alius hab a fine patch, 
boss, kase I neber plants no po’ seed. Yo ’member 
de book say : * Yo’ reaps what yo’ sow, an’ ef yo’ sows 
de win’ yo’ reaps de whirlwin’ sho’.’ ” 

“That is a true saying, Mono,” said Reynolds. “ It 
holds good in the matter of all kinds of crops.” 

“ Now yo’s a gittin’ ter de marrer ob de subjec’, boss. 
’Tain’t many young men see it dat way, do’. Dey 
mos’ly sow a little ob de win’ jes’ fo’ ter see how *' 


206 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


wo’k ; but de way dey cotches hell fo’ it at de end ob de 
row am cunnin’ ter see. I knows all ’bout it, boss ; I’s 
ben dah, I has. ’Spec’ you’s ben poo’ty rapid, too, 
boss, yo’ got de gallopin’ cut o’ de eye. I knows a 
rus’ler w’en I see ’im. Yo’ no slow-goin’ creeter, boss, 
yah ! yah ! yah ! yah-h-h ! ” The old wretch chuckled 
and guffawed, as if his sayings had stirred his feelings 
boisterously. The active wrinkles in his face made it 
ludicrously expressive. Reynolds made no response. 

“ I kin tell w’en I see a young feller, whedder he like 
de spo’t er sowin’ a leetle win’ an’ kinder hanker fo’ de 
’citement ob de whirlwin’. Yo’ no spring chicken, 
boss, yo’s ” 

“ Be off, you old vagabond ! ” stormed General 
DeKay’s military voice from somewhere among the 
shrubbery. 

“ Vag’bon’, vag’bon’, I’s no vag’bon, no mo’ ’n some 
white folks I knows ob,” Uncle Mono muttered, very 
careful that the general should not hear him, and then 
shuffled away to plant his melon seeds. 

The sort of flattery intended to be conveyed by the 
old negro’s expressions fell with a peculiarly disagree- 
able effect upon the mind of Reynolds. It seemed 
quite devoid of the humor which Mono by his nods 
and winks and grimaces had meant to enforce. It had 
come like a direct, malignant, personal accusation, all 
the more disagreeable on account of its source. He 
'^.ed out across the little plat and through the tree- 


I 


CONVALESCENT. 207 

tops beyond toward the patches of blue sky, without 
noting any of the softness and beauty of the view. It 
chafed him immeasurably that he could see no escape 
from his tormenting situation. What was the use of 
struggling against the pressure? He felt all the verve 
and force of life slipping out. He was not weaker 
than most men whose passions are deep and turbulent 
and whose imagination is fervid and flexible. He 
passed easily from one extreme to another. He could 
not dally on the middle ground. Looking back now, 
he saw no good in all his past life, and looking forward 
he felt no expectation of good in the future. With his 
arm resting along the window-sill and his head droop- 
ing across it, he did not hear the light foot-fall on the 
floor. A hand was passed over his hair. When he 
turned Mrs. Ransom stood near him, with her sweet 
blue eyes bent with a measureless meaning of love 
upon him. He almost shrank from her at first, then 
he would have clasped her, but she eluded him and sat 
down in a chair beyond his reach. 

“You are appearing so much better,” she said, with 
a little constraint in her voice, but not disclosing any 
excitement. Her beautiful face was a trifle pale and 
there were faint, dusky lines under her eyes. 

“Yes, I am nearly well, I hope,” he replied, abetting 
her in the effort to make the occasion have a common- 
place appearance. 

“ It is such sweet weather. Do you hear my 


208 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES . 


ing birds?” she inquired, trying to smile. “They 
have been having a stormy concert.” 

“Yes, they have had a real war of song all the 
morning,” he answered. 

A long space of silence ensued, during which they 
heard Uncle Mono chanting an African ditty to a 
lagging, melancholy tune, while he worked in his patch 
some distance away. Presently Reynolds almost 
abruptly said : 

“You have been ill, your aunt says. I am so glad 
you are with me again. I have been lonely and — and 
sad. I was afraid you were worse than your aunt 
would acknowledge.” 

“ It is all over now,” she replied with a short, 
repressed sigh. “ Do you feel strong enough to walk 
out? The morning is very inviting.” 

“ It is a happy thought,” he almost cheerily re- 
sponded, rising and taking up his hat ; “ let us go out 
at once. I am tired of being indoors, despite the good 
nursing I have had.” 

They passed into the broad hall, where she took 
from a table her hat, on which the twisted sprig of 
mistletoe still remained, just as he had fixed it on the 
day of the shoot, and thence they went forth among 
the magnolia trees on the front lawn. 

“ One can never quite lose sight of the river here,” 
said Reynolds ; “ see how it shines under the boughs 
Isn’t it fine?” 


CONVALESCENT. 


209 


“ Have you noticed that the gentle roar it ha*d some 
weeks ago is almost silenced?" she asked. 

“ I had not, but I do now," he answered ; “ what is 
the cause?" 

“ It has fallen so low that its current is too sluggish, 
I suppose; but Uncle Mono and the rest of the 
negroes have a pretty saying that the river sings till 
the mocking birds begin, and then it becomes silent in 
order to listen to their voices." 

“ That is a poetical idea." 

“ They have a more grotesque one about the moon 
crossing the river." 

“ What is that?" 

“ They claim that if one takes a skiff and goes to 
the middle of the river, exactly at midnight when the 
moon is full, one may see the moon in the water mak- 
ing all sorts of wry faces at the moon in the sky." 

“ I have observed that myself," said Reynolds, very 
gravely. 

“The moon making faces?" she exclaimed with a 
little smile, looking inquiringly up into his face. 

“Yes, the skiff or the wind breaks the surface of the 
water into ripples which cause the reflection of the 
moon to appear to do all manner of fantastic things." 

“ Oh, I understand it now. I had never thought of 
that." 

“ But," she added, after a moment of silence, “ it 
would be cruel to explain away Uncle Mono’s fanciful 


210 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


legend or myth of the Alabama and the moon. Don’t 
you think so ?” 

“The old scamp is not so ignorant,” said Reynolds. 
“It would not be so easy as you might imagine 
to destroy his stories. He would have plenty of 
expedients for evading the demonstrations of natural 
philosophy.” 

“ I should hope he would,” she said, “ for there is 
something fascinating in all his grotesqueries. They 
seem to have a smack of genuine African wildness of 
poetry in them.” 

They sat down on a low wooden bench, mossy with 
age and exposure to the weather, under a grand mag- 
nolia tree. Here they were in the full tide of the 
breeze with all the freshness and fragrance of the 
morning around them. The dingy old house, so large 
and plain and yet so picturesquely Southern, was just 
sufficiently removed to be nearly lost in its vines and 
trees. Reynolds felt some sort of dread lest their con- 
versation should fall away from the lightness with 
which it had begun — a dread almost betrayed when he 
said : 

“Can’t you think of another negro conceit ? I am 
sorry I spoiled the one about the moon.” 

“ They have a story of the owl and the magnolia 
bloom,” she answered, after a pause. “ They say that 
the big laughing owl comes, in his wisdom, every 
spring, when the buds of the magnolias are just on the 


CONVALESCENT. 


2 1 1 


point of opening, and says to the tree: ‘Hold fast, 
hold fast ; if you speak now you’ll lose your influence 
for a whole year,’ but the tree does not heed the wise 
counsel. It opens its lips (the petals of its flowers) and 
spills its perfume. Then the owl laughs dismally and 
the tree has no more perfume for a year.” 

“ That doesn’t sound much like a thought of savage 
origin. It has a weak touch of civilization in it some- 
where.” 

“ Oh, the negroes have gathered liberally from us, 
no doubt,” she said, reflectively stirring some dry leaves 
with the toe of her tiny boot. 

It vexed him that this action reminded him of Milly 
White. He rubbed his forehead to try to dissipate the 
thought. Perhaps there was, scarcely known to him- 
self, a deeper reason for his irritation in the conscious- 
ness that they both were beating against the wind to 
reach some common ground from which they might 
banish forever any allusion to what they felt must 
always remain a dreary memory. After a long silence, 
Mrs. Ransom, with the outright courage of her 
womanly sense of what was for the best, did not hesi- 
tate to approach the point. 

“ This thing, that you told me of the other day, must 
be our secret. The world has no right to it. I have 
considered it from every point of view possible to me, 
and I can see no other safe or proper course. Am I 
right ? ” 


212 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


Reynolds was startled by the steadiness and firmness 
of her voice and manner, but he clutched eagerly at 
the comfort of her suggestion, so like an echo of his 
own thought. 

“ I am glad to hear you say that,” he replied. “ I 
was on the point of saying it myself. Let us bury the 
subject forever. It is one of the inscrutable turns of 
fate over which we never had control. It is in the 
past. Let it stay there.” 

“ I thought at first that I could not bear it, but it 
came to me, after the first shock, that you are the one 
most burdened and that I ought to help you,” she 
responded, with an infinite tenderness in her voice. “ I 
know you were not to blame.” 

“ God knows how true that is, and how I love you,” 
said he, in a husky accent, his cheeks pale with intense 
feeling, his eyes burning strangely. 

Her face was turned somewhat from him, and as he 
looked at its fine profile and gentle grace of expression, 
he upbraided fate with unutterable rebuke because he 
had not been allowed to see and know her before any 
ill had befallen her. How little he understood the 
value that trouble and sorrow had added to her charms. 
He thought of nothing but the pathetic aspect of her 
experiences and the effect of her past and his upon the 
present and the future. He chafed under the convic- 
tion that this secret which they now held between them 
would never fall back among those cast aside things 


CONVALESCENT. 


213 

that form the rubbish of the past, but would stay close 
to them ready to come into view at any unguarded 
moment. In fact, would they not have to keep always 
this common burden well in view in order not to allow 
the cover to fall from it ? 

“ Does your shoulder pain you ? ” she asked ; but she 
knew that it was an older and more dangerous hurt 
that caused the pallor in his cheeks. 

“No, it is coming along finely,” he answered, with 
an effort at cheerfulness. “ I shall be going away in a 
few days.” 

“ Not so very few ; you are not strong yet.” 

“ Oh, yes, I am beginning to feel quite like myself, 
and my wound is almost healed.” 

“ I shall miss you when you are gone,” she said, 
with a little smile. “You have been my patient so 
long.” 

“ Do you imagine that I can stay away ? Don’t you 
know that I will be back surprisingly soon ? How can 
I live where you are not, Agnes?” 

Just a hint of color suffused her cheeks. She dropped 
her eyes in a charming way, with that girlish air dis- 
closing itself in her outlines, and yet some indefinable 
expression of great trouble remained. 

“You will find the mountains delightful at this time 
of the year,” she said. “ The spring is very forward. 
The wild-flowers will be out and the mountain-slopes 
will be growing green.” 


2T4 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


“ But there is nothing left for me up there. More- 
ton is gone, the Nobles are gone : it will be very 
lonely.” 

“ Then why go at all ? Stay with us as long as you 
can,” she said, with all the old na'ivet£ in her voice. 
“ The bass-fishing is beginning, uncle says, and you and 
he can enjoy it together. The spring fishing is very 
fine here.” 

“ That will insure my return,” he said, with the first 
laugh. “ But I shall have to go up to Birmingham and 
look after some affairs. They are running a coal-switch 
into some of my lands, and I must see to leasing some 
of the best veins.” 

“ Such lands must be quite valuable. Have you a 
large amount ? ” she asked, but she could not have 
told why. 

“ I have a great many acres, but the extent of the 
coal deposits remains to be ascertained. I have been 
offered a large sum for the estate, however.” 

“ I can’t visit Birmingham any more, now that Cor- 
delia is gone. I wish she could have staid. She is a 
charming friend,” she said, with that inconsequence 
which is so apparent in written conversation, but which 
runs unnoticed through the oral intercourse of even 
the best talkers. 

“ A few days — a week, at furthest — will set all my 
things to rights,” he continued. “ And then, if I may, I 
will come back to — to try the bass with General DeKay.” 


CON FA EE SCENT. 


215 


It is by such bridges of straw that many a gulf is 
spanned ; but who can successfully laugh at the struc- 
ture, no matter how fragile, if it is able to serve the 
purpose for which it is built? Happy is he who can 
at will bind together or hold apart the incidents of life 
with the almost imperceptible gossamer threads of 
tact. 

At the end of an hour they had managed to forget 
themselves somewhat, and it was with a feeling closely 
akin to annoyance that Mrs. Ransom read on a card 
brought to her by a servant — “ Mallory Beresford.” 

“ Mr. Beresford has come,” she said, a decided flush 
coming into her cheeks, “ and wishes to see me. I 
shall have to go, I suppose. Will you return to the 
house now ? ” 

“No, I will get some more air. You will come back, 
won’t you, when he is gone? ” 

“Yes; that is, if he doesn’t stay too long,” answered 
she with a bright smile. 

Reynolds let his eyes follow her lithe and supple 
form as she walked briskly toward the house. She 
was carrying her hat in her hand and there was a bit 
of bright ribbon fluttering back over one shoulder and 
down her back, under her dark coil of hair. Touches 
of the Southern, the warm, the dusky, the dreamy, filled 
in the spaces of the picture beyond and around and 
over her. The light brush of her feet, in the crisp, 
fallen leaves and tufts of grass, came back to him, and 


21 6 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


along with it a thrill sweeter and more mournful than 
any chord of the Tiolian harp. He shook himself, 
drew his hand across his face, arose and strolled idly 
about under the trees. 

“ It is worth a great effort,” he was thinking, “ and I 
shall succeed. Life gives up its measure of happiness 
at last to the brave and earnest. The past shall not 
mold, my future and hers. I will take her and go 
abroad. She shall forget, among the beauties and 
interesting changes of travel, all this foolish panorama 
that our imaginations have made out of the coinci- 
dents and calamities for which neither of us is to blame. 
Oh, we shall be happy yet ! ” He held his head high 
and his eyes flashed with mingled hope and defiance. 

When he thought of Milly White he added : “ I 
shall not forget to repay her for all her faithfulness 
and childish affection.” 

Faithfulness and childish affection ! Faithfulness 
and childish affection ! the echo went ringing away into 
the remotest nooks of his consciousness. For a time he 
struggled hard and finally he hurled memory aside to 
give himself wholly up to forming plans for the future. 
But no one is vigilant enough to keep unwelcome 
guests long out of the chamber of his brain. They 
flit in so swiftly at any chance opening. How giant 
strong and yet how furtive and silent they are ! 


CHAPTER XVII. 


DREAMS AND PLANS. 

R EYNOLDS lingered in the pleasant shadows of 
the magnolia trees, now slowly walking to and 
fro, now resting on some one of the old lichen-grown 
seats, his thoughts oscillating between the past and 
the future. He was aware, but not vividly, of how 
aimless and cowardly his life until now had been, and 
he was not quite sure that, no matter how strong might 
be his present purpose, the cowardice did not still 
linger with him. One thing he did realize perfectly : 
that he had not told the whole truth to Agnes Ran- 
som. He might have avoided killing her husband 
had he been prompted by the highest moral motives. 
If before the act he had been as willing to fly from San 
Antonio and go bury himself in the lonely depths of 
Sand Mountain as he was after the blood was on his 
hands, he could to-day look up into the bright sweet 
sky and feel no load on his heart. But then, Heaven 
forgive the thought, Agnes could not have been his ! 
It was with a dull, almost stolid sense of the gloom 
and hopelessness of his situation that he at the same 


2 1 8 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


time pondered the possibilities of the future. Through- 
out his consciousness, too, independent of the past or 
the future, the present fact of Agnes Ransom’s love 
for him diffused itself with constantly increasing power, 
warmer, more vitalizing, more glorifying than sunshine 
and spring-tide and virile health combined. He knew 
and he did not know that he was trying to deceive 
himself and the woman he loved. He was aware and 
he was not aware that all his reasoning regarding the 
future was sophistry and that the things of the past 
were not dead. He smiled there under the dusky 
trees as if he were a guileless youth in the sweet 
wonder of his first love. He held his head high. Had 
he not flung all weights of memory behind him and set 
his eyes on a fair and calm future? Yes, he was going 
to be happy. He was already happy. He would take 
Agnes far away, beyond the sea, where no hint of the 
past could ever come. At length he caught a distant 
glimpse of Beresford goingaway, and then a little thrill 
of pity stole into his bosom. The man looked lonely, 
even at that distance, and moved as if bearing a burden 
of trouble, or so at least Reynolds’ imagination colored 
the apparition. 

Mrs. Ransom did not come forth immediately. She 
had borne the interview with firmness, and had tried 
to soften with such art as she could command the 
wound she was forced to inflict. Beresford was a 
gentleman as well as a man, and whilst he had urged 


_ DREAMS AND FLANS. 


219 


his plea with all the passion of a strong nature, he nad 
taken his final dismissal with the dignity of a courage- 
ous, if not lofty soul. 

When he was gone, the reaction upon Mrs. Ransom’s 
sensitive and already sorely taxed nerves was more 
than she had expected, and she went to her room and 
cried. It seemed so bitter a thing to do to one so 
earnest and honorable and gentle. 

Reynolds saw the traces of tears on her face, when 
at last she did come out to look for him, but he avoided 
saying anything to call up an explanation. She told 
him the story, however, in her straightforward, simple 
way, acknowledging her regret and her tears, and end- 
ing with some outright praise of Beresford’s worthi- 
ness. 

“ I am sorry he came,” said Reynolds. “ I felt for 
him when I saw him going away ; but what else could 
you do?” 

“ Did he look sad ? ” she inquired with perfect 
naivete, a sweet sorrowfulness in her voice. 

“ Oh, I couldn’t tell, he was too far off,” answered 
Reynolds. “ It will all come right. We will not allow 
our imaginations to follow him. I must tell you my 
plans. I hope they will be your plans too.” 

She lifted her eyes to his but did not speak. 

“ First of all, Agnes,” he went on, “ will you be my 
wife ? ” The words fell dryly, strangely on her ear. 

They were standing close to a tree and she was 


2 20 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


lightly leaning against the bole. She felt a quick but 
vague sense of fear, or something akin to it, strike 
coldly into her heart. 

It was inexplicable, an almost irresistible impulse 
.toward flight took hold of her. She could not speak. 
Something forbade it. 

“ Answer me, Agnes : you will marry me, won’t you, 
love ? ” His voice was low and appealing. 

Her trepidation and weakness were but momentary. 
She mastered herself by a strong effort, and, with a 
brave, earnest smile, put both her hands in his. 

“ Yes, I will marry you,” she said. 

He lifted the hands swiftly and kissed them, then he 
led her to one of the seats. 

“ I have been planning such a delightful life for us,” 
he began, and with passionate eloquence went on to 
disclose his idea of their going abroad, for a time at 
least, to live in Italy or Switzerland or France, together, 
for each other, the blissful life of love. 

Her imagination responded readily to his eloquent 
descriptions, and her face was soon aglow with enthusi- 
astic interest. She had always dreamed of foreign 
travel, and the subject was one into which she could 
cast herself with all the abandon of a child. He saw 
with delight how his proposition pleased her, and he 
talked with a freedom and earnestness that were irre- 
sistible. They were now very happy lovers indeed, 
and the time sped on golden wings until a servant 


BREAMS AND ELANS. 


221 


came to call them to luncheon. They had slipped 
away from the troubles that had haunted them into 
the true realm of the young — the rosy region of 
dreams. 

The mid-day meal at the DeKay place was not, as 
is, perhaps, the prevailing custom on plantations, the 
principal one. Dinner came on early in the evening 
and was all the more enjoyable on account of the 
delightful temperature of the hour throughout most 
of the year. 

Late in the afternoon a, young gentleman from an 
adjoining plantation came down the river in a little boat 
to make a friendly visit. He had been one of the guests 
on the day of the shoot, a dapper, talkative youth whose 
fund of good spirits made him welcome at all times. 
He liked wine and tobacco, was somewhat of a horse- 
man and never tired of discussing questions of angling 
and field sports. Of course General DeKay, who cared 
for nothing so much as such companionship, would not 
let him return until after dinner. His name was Lap- 
ham. The Laphams were a fine old family — nearly all 
the Alabama families below the mountains are reported 
to be fine and old — and he retained in his'speech and 
manner much that was ultra old and Southern, along 
with certain strong traces of quite modern “ slang and 
snap,” as it is called. 

He sat next to Mrs. Ransom at table, entertaining 
her and the rest with an account of some recent races 


222 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


at New Orleans, or Tuscaloosa, or somewhere, that he 
had been to see. There had been a row among some 
sports ending in one being killed. 

“ It was a mean murder/’ he remarked, “ the man was 
given no show. I hope the law will be swift, as in the 
case of your man, Colonel Reynolds.” 

Reynolds looked at him with quick inquiry and 
Mrs. Ransom’s face showed the shrinking of her feel- 
ings. 

“ Oh, they got him below Selma and hanged him,” 
added Lapham in answer to the question in Reynolds’ 
eyes. “ They made short work of it : caught him and 
strung him up to the first tree.” 

“ I haven’t read the papers for several days,” said 
General DeKay. “ They lynched him, did they ? Hang- 
ing is the popular thing now.” 

“Yes,” answered Lapham. “ He deserved it, I believe. 
It was a bad case. Killed a young fellow who had just 
been married. Loved the girl himself, it is said, and 
did the deed out of sheer revenge, because she took 
the young man in preference to himself. The circum- 
stances were atrocious. The young wife is reported to 
have lost her reason on account of the affair.” 

There came a depressing silence over the little group 
at the table. Mrs. DeKay made haste to change the 
topic of conversation to one she was sure would interest 
the gentlemen. 

“ Have you tried the trout since this fine weather has 


DREAMS AND FLANS. 


223 


come ? ” she asked, addressing Lapham. “ I should think 
the angling might be good now.” 

The mention of trout (bass are called trout in the 
South) set the young man in the midst of one of his 
favorite elements. He began at once to tell how he 
had killed a four-pounder that very morning. He always 
killed four-pounders. “ It was the gamiest fish I ever 
hooked, I think, — a regular savage. I toiled with it a full 
half hour before I could land it. At one time it had 
out nearly a hundred yards of line and I thought I 
never should get it checked up. If it had gone a little 
further my rod or my line — one would have suffered. 
It was jolly sport.” 

“ I must rig up my tackle and try the river to-mor- 
row,” said the General. “ Are you strong enough to 
join me, Colonel Reynolds ? Of course you will come 
down, Mr. Lapham ? ” 

“ I am sorry,” answered Reynolds, “ but I fear my 
shoulder is too tender. I am quite anxious to get well, 
and to that end must heed my doctor’s advice.” 

“ I will join you, General,” said Lapham with eager 
readiness. “This morning’s taste has made me raven- 
ous for another round with the finny beauties.” 

“What flies are best here?” inquired Reynolds, 
thinking of something else. 

“ Oh, we use minnows,” said Lapham, “ though I 
have had success with a bob of deer-tail hairs and red 
feathers. The trout won’t rise to a regular fly.” 


224 


AT LO VE ’S EXTREMES. 


“ Up in the mountains I find the ‘ Doctor’ and the 
brown hackle very killing,” said Reynolds. “ I have had 
rare sport in the smaller streams. The bass there are 
quite as game as brook trout.” 

“ The mountain fish are like the mountain crackers : 
game but not over wise,” Lapham quickly responded, 
with an intonation meant as a guaranty of the origi- 
nality of his humor. 

“ Neither would be easily handled by a novice, I grant 
you,” said Reynolds with a peculiar smile. 

Lapham laughed merrily. The retort pleased him 
better than his own venture. 

“ I was up in the mountains last winter deer hunting,” 
he said, “ and there’s one thing I can testify to in behalf 
of those crackers : they are very hospitable and oblig- 
ing ; they seem to think they can’t do too much for 
one. But the women ! It kept me in a state of chronic 
melancholy to see the poor things.” 

“ Their life is a lonely, dreary, hopeless one,” replied 
Reynolds, “but they are good, and as true as steel.” 

“Yes, no doubt they are good. I know they are 
kind, and all that. They asked me to smoke with them 
and called me sonny ! ” 

“ Did you go when they called you ? ” the General 
asked, with the ready familiarity of old acquaintance. 

“Yes,” said Lapham, “ I recognize the fitness of the 
appellation.” 

Reynolds was thinking of Milly White. She was, in 


DREAMS AND PLANS. 


225 


his mind, unseparable from any idea of the mountains 
and their people. He felt an impulse to resent, as per- 
sonal to her, every suggestion made at the expense of 
the mountaineers. He could see her now, standing by 
the little gate gazing down the crooked, stony road, 
patiently watching for his return. He strove to brush 
aside the reflections that began to crowd into his brain, 
and with the help of Lapham’s skipping levity and the 
unusual volubility of General DeKay’s talk, he at last 
succeeded in hiding his uneasiness and lack of sympathy 
with the quiet merriment of the occasion. 

Mrs. Ransom appeared to be lighter-hearted than at 
any other time since the adventure at the ruin. Her 
face was touched with a charming color and she fol- 
lowed Lapham’s shallow chatter with smiling atten- 
tion. It was from her that Reynolds finally caught 
the ability to forget himself and to fall into the spirit 
that ruled the rest of the company. Once engaged, 
he put forth his powers with good effect. For Lap- 
ham’s benefit he described the Derby and the Grand 
Prix, a pigeon shoot in England where the stake was 
a thousand pounds, angling in Scotland and some 
hunting adventures in Algiers. From sport he easily 
drifted to art and from art into the ever wonderful and 
fascinating scenery of Switzerland and Italy. It was 
Agnes who led him on to speak of Paris and Rome, 
the two cities of every young woman’s dream. She 
was full of the thought of going with him to the old 


226 


AT LOVE’S EXTREMES. 


world. It was intoxicating her. How far away it 
would be — that life beyond the sea — from the dreary, 
sorrowful pool of her narrow and bitter experience ! 
That night in the quiet of her chamber she thought it 
all over, and she was dreaming of it when next morn- 
ing the mocking-birds awoke her. Reynolds, too, 
went to his room with an almost light heart. From 
his window he saw Lapham, with a little sail set, go up 
the river before the night breeze, in the light of a cres- 
cent moon that hung over in the west. 

“ I will return to Birmingham to-morrow,” he thought. 
He was in haste to get his affairs all arranged and then 
come back and persuade Agnes to name the earliest 
day possible for their marriage. He felt a mighty 
impatience, as if each moment endangered the cup of 
happiness now bubbling at his lips. 

But the thought of going back to the mountains 
chilled him. Why need he go at all ? Why should 
any sordid consideration enter into the discussion of 
his plans? Had he not already shut out of his life 
the dreamy hermitage and all that pertained to it? 
He tried to imagine a line drawn across the past at a 
point on this side of all his unprofitable experiences, a 
line over which he would teach his memory not to 
cross. Could he not, by a supreme effort of will, tear 
wholly away from his old self, as from a chrysalis 
sheath, purify himself and spend the rest of his days 
in the summer atmosphere of a calm and peaceful 


BREAMS AND PLANS. 


227 


life? How it tormented him to perceive his lack of 
genuine courage and sincerity in this exacting crisis ! 
He tried not to know that his new hopes and desires 
were not borne up by an underswell of true repentance. 
The selfishness of mere regret and remorse taunted 
him insidiously, whilst the happiness that beckoned 
him on was tricked in sensuous tinsel-tints, the expo- 
nents of a very low power of good. He struggled 
fiercely, silently, fighting down in detail the troops of 
phantoms that beset him. Finally he cheated himself 
into believing, or feigning to believe, that he had 
gained the victory. The field is clear, he thought, I 
am a man once more. 

Strangely enough his mental struggle ended in con- 
firming instead of rejecting the thought of returning to 
Birmingham at once and closing out his interests there. 
After all, why should he hesitate? What possible 
objection existed? How could he be affected? He 
brushed it all aside as sheer sentimentality unworthy 
of consideration. He could not assume to be responsi- 
ble for every body who had chanced to come within 
the radius of his life. What is a man here for, save to 
forge his own way to happiness ? 

And so he rushed from one extreme to the other, 
wholly unable to see the fine straight line of right, 
wholly unwilling bravely to assume the responsibility 
of lifting the burden his own hands had packed and 
bound. Not see the right! Yes, he saw it at last, 


22 & 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


clearly enough he thought. Reparation, reparation. 
He would right all the wrongs he had done. He would 
do good all the rest of his life. Kindliness, charity, 
blessings. He would leave a trail of good deeds 
behind him wherever he should go. The poor should 
remember him and the afflicted should feel the touch 
of his tenderness. With Agnes beside him, with her 
pure soul to influence and encourage him, to what a 
height of unselfishness he might rise. He smiled and 
felt reassured. All was well. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


REALITIES. 



HERE is no phase of life so steadfast and at the 


1. same time so tricksy and variable as what is called 
being in love : the current is all on£ way and yet its 
force appears to act in every direction. Love sets 
for itself impossible tasks with a perfect confidence, 
attempts any height, and, alas, too often is willing to 
delve in the mire and dregs of things with the hope of 
finding one glittering grain of its desire. No doubt 
supreme passion and supreme happiness lie far apart. 
Form, color, sound, perfume and whatever appeals 
through them, may constitute, we know not to what 
extent, the values of passion. Happiness is not so 
clothed that its substance is covered or its footing 
invisible. It appeals to the conscience more than to 
the senses. One may say : I am happy, and go 
delightedly through the giddy rounds of the little 
whirlwinds of pleasurable emotion, but he is all the 
time conscious of the vacuum and lack of equilibrium 
that have caused the unusual excitement. He is vague- 
ly or otherwise mindful of the fact that he is indulging 
a delusion. His conscience argues that steadfastness, 
poise, evenness and certainty are the foundation stones 


230 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES . 


of happiness. Too often these foundation stones 
seem to lie far away, so that, like the old poet, one cries 
out : “ Oh, had I the wings of a dove ! ” Reynolds and 
Agnes had fixed their eyes on this distant place where, 
amid new scenes and strange people, the temple of 
their love might become the dwelling-place of immeas- 
urable happiness. And why should they not realize 
this dream? They were young, strong and loving. 
He had wealth sufficient for a life of reasonable luxury, 
and was not their secret their own ? Over and over 
again the argument was made and the pleasing con- 
clusion reached. 

It was a comfort to them both to reiterate their 
expressions of confidence in the future ; for all the 
time there lurked a doubt somewhere on the outer 
boundary of their field of thought, a doubt each hoped 
the other did not know of. Not that either questioned 
the purity or perfectness of the other’s love, that was 
impossible, but this dark secret of the past seemed to 
link them together on an insecure footing which might 
give way at any time, plunging them into an abyss of 
irremediable suffering. It mattered not how far away 
or how shadowy this doubt was, or how often it seemed 
to be utterly driven off, the lesion it caused to the 
tissue of their love-dreams was incurable and there- 
fore dreadful, notwithstanding its obscurity. It might 
be forgotten for a time, even for a long time, but it 
could not be put away wholly and forever. 


REALITIES. 


231 


However, love takes all risks, braves all dangers, 
attacks every obstacle. There was no longer hesita- 
tion, even if the doubt would linger. They were 
impatient to embark upon their voyage to love’s land, 
as they imagined it, somewhere beyond the sea. They 
laughed, they sang, they exchanged sweet, airy utter- 
ances of passion, as did the birds in the green mazes of 
the tree-tops above them. They made the most of 
the moments. 

“ ’Clar’ ter goodness ! ” muttered Uncle Mono, whose 
eyes were not so old that he failed to note the wooing. 
“ ’Clar’ ter goodness ! Ef de young boss haint a rus’ler 
den I dunno nuffin’. W’y he done kotch de pore 
leetle missus, same lak er hawk ketch um bird. She 
not hab time ter squeak ’fore she gone ! Mebbe it turn 
out de bes’ kin’, I dunno, but seem lak dar’s somefin’ 
’sterious sorter bodderin’ my min’ ’bout it. Wha’ dat 
boss come f’om, anyhow ? an’ wha’ he gwine ter go to, 
I’d lak ter know? But he’s er rus’ler, sho’s you bo’n, 
he is ! ” 

General DeKay and his wife saw how matters were 
drifting, too, and they discussed the probable outcome 
with many doubts and misgivings. They were not 
persons fond of borrowing trouble, however, and they 
did not know of any objection to Reynolds. In fact, 
the General had grown to like him very much. More- 
ton had told them that Reynolds was wealthy and of 
a good family, and had let fall a great many apparently 


A T LOVE’S EXTREMES. 


232 

accidental references to his friend’s good qualities. 
There seemed to be no foundation upon which to base 
an objection, no plausible reason for interference, so 
the love-passage was left to be worked out to its end- 
ing, whatever that might be. 

Reynolds got ready to go to Birmingham. The De- 
Kay place was about two hours’ drive from Montgom- 
ery over a level country highway. So on the morning 
set for his departure a carriage stood ready at the gate 
in front of the lawn. He had taken formal leave of 
General DeKay early in the morning when that sport- 
loving planter was on the point of joining Lapham in 
an excursion for bass. The General had warmly urged 
him to return soon, so as to test the qualities of the 
fish in the Alabama, and he had readily accepted the 
invitation. Now he was lingering on the veranda with 
Agnes, who, dressed in a pale blue morning gown and 
flushed with the sweet emotions that filled her breast, 
was looking her loveliest. Her blue eyes had lost for 
the time all traces of the quiet sadness they had so 
long harbored, and were beaming with a tender, happy 
light. She stood up erect and strong, her slender 
figure, with its softly rounded outlines, poised with 
such grace as always suggests a reserve of abundant 
elasticity and youthful alertness. Whoever had studied 
her face at that time would have declared that its 
expression was in every way witchingly girlish, simply 
and charmingly beautiful, full of truth and earnest faith 




REALITIES. 


233 




in the right ; but he would not have called it an intel- 
lectual face, or one indexing a strongly developed 
character. She would make a good wife, he might 
have said, a trusting, gentle, ever-loving, ever-faithful 
companion, the comfort of a strong man, the sweet 
light of a home ; but she could never be any thing 
more. 

“ A week, love, and then — ” said Reynolds, pausing 
to look fondly down into her eyes. 

“ And then you will come back to me,” she quickly 
replied, “ I know you will, and I shall wait for you 
and think of you every minute of the time.” 

“ Oh, you must not worry about me, or be impatient. 
The days will soon slip by. Take good care of your- 
self and ” 

“You are the one who needs that advice,” she 
urged, “ for your wound is not entirely well, you know. 
Do be very, very careful, for, for — you are very dear to 
somebody now ! ” 

He would have kissed her then, but Uncle Mono 
very unopportunely made his appearance around the 
corner of the veranda. Mono was old and wise. He 
knew that the departure of a guest from the house was 
the golden moment for a servant possessing his liberal 
opportunities. The lifting force of emancipation from 
slavery had not raised his pride above the level of 
those tricks which, in his days of bondage, had served 
to soothe his palm with pieces of silver, and even of 


234 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


gold sometimes, tossed from the lavish, careless hands 
of visitors whom he had waited upon. He came 
shambling along with his old hat in his hand, bowing 
very low and grinning the grin of the trickster who is 
sure that his trick must win. As he came near he 
said : 

“ Berry sorry yo’ gwine away, boss, berry sorry. 
Hope yo’ not fo’get ole Mono when yo’ done gone. 
’Cessful journey to yo’, boss.” 

“ Thank you, Uncle Mono, I can never forget you. 
Did you ever play base-ball, Mono ? ” said Reynolds. 

“ Nah, sah, do’n know nuffin’ ’bout dat,” answered 
the old man, shaking his head and executing some 
ludicrous grimaces. “ I nebber plays nuffin’ ’cep’n’ 
de fiddle an’ de banjer, an’ I’se gettin’ so ole an’ 
’flicted dat I can’t play dem to no good. Old Mono 
mos’ run he ye’thly co’se, boss.” 

“You’re not springy and active, then, Mono. You’ve 
lost the use of yourself pretty nearly, I suppose ? ” 

“ Dat’s it, boss, dat’s it. Ole man all cripple up 
wid ’fliction an’ ole age. No ’count any mo’. He 
done los’ all he sperit.” 

“ Well, Mono,” said Reynolds very gravely, taking 
some pieces of money from his pocket, “ if you’ll catch 
this dollar when I throw it to you, I’ll give you 
another.” 

Mono prepared to use his hat. 

“ No, no,” exclaimed Reynolds, laughing, “I’ll not 


REALITIES. 


235 


have that ! Put down your hat and use your hands. 
Now, here it comes.” 

No cat, leaping out of the summer grass to catch a 
low-flying sparrow, ever displayed more nimbleness 
and adroitness than did old Mono in catching that 
dollar. It fell upon his dusky palm with a clear slap 
and immediately found its way into his trowsers 
pocket. 

“Yah, yah, yah ! let de oder ’n come, boss, I’s ready 
for ’m ! ” shouted the old fellow in great delight. 

“You’re an intolerable fraud, Mono,” said Reynolds, 
tossing him another dollar, “ your afflictions are of the 
kind the good people sing about, that * are oft in 
mercy sent ; ’ a few more of the same sort would 
make a famous acrobat of you.” 

“Fanky, boss, fanky; tole yo’ dat yo’ wus a rus’ler, 
did’n’ I? Goo’by, boss, ’cessful journey to yo’, sah.” 

“Good-by, Mono, we’ll go a fishing when I come 
back,” Reynolds called after him, as he rapidly 
retreated. 

“All right, boss, I go widyo’. 1 show yo’ wha’ dey 
is, sho’s yo’ bo’n. Goo’by! ” 

The morning breeze was singing in the vines that 
clothed the heavy columns of the tall veranda, and its 
gentle current tossed some loose tresses across Mrs. 
Ransom’s happy face. It was time for Reynolds to 
be on his road, but he faltered whenever he undertook 
to say the word of parting. Yet a minute or two, he 


236 


AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 


would think : I will make up for the lost time when I get 
started. She had never appeared so beautiful as now, 
never so happy, never so loving. 

“ Walk down to the gate with me,” he presently 
said : “ it will give me a happy send-off on my journey, 
to look back and see you standing there watching me as I 
am going out of sight among the shadows of the wood.” 

They spent a long time passing over the space 
between the veranda and the gate. Here they paused 
to dally beside a bed of hyacinth or there to note how 
wonderfully large the violets were. A touch of childish- 
ness, or thoughtlessness (or was it that artlessness 
which comes of complete self-forgetfulness?) made 
their actions amusingly interesting to Mrs. DeKay, 
who watched them from the window. 

The colored driver was perched upon his high seat 
in front of the DeKay landau and the team of chestnut 
mares was ready for the road. There was plenty of 
time left in which to reach Montgomery so as to take 
the north bound train. 

“Agnes,” Reynolds murmured, “ you must be ready 
to set an early day for our marriage by the time of my 
return. We shall want to sail as early in June as pos- 
sible. I have not yet spoken to your uncle and aunt, 
but I shall as soon as I return.” 

She was silent, but it was a silence just as satisfactory 
to her lover as any words could have been. 

The barbaric imagination, always a part of the negro, 


REALITIES . 


237 


must have been aroused in the driver as he lounged in 
his seat and gazed at the beautiful woman and the tall, 
strong man straying down the walk. Their figures 
were boldly relieved against the dull gray background 
of the old house, and framed in with vines and mag- 
nolia boughs. He had a vivid though savagely crude 
sense of the warmth and tenderness and fresh- 
ness of the picture. His indolent, half-closed eyes 
and shining, jet black face were expressive of that 
dreamy phase of delight which is generated by 
mere passive receptivity. The delicate blue of Mrs. 
Ransom’s dress, the charming bloom of her face and 
the supple grace and strength of her slender figure 
were to him as a star is to a poet, a mystery, a focus 
of unapproachable glory, never to be any nearer or 
any further away. He felt, without knowing it, all the 
aesthetic values of the scene before him ; the cloudless, 
tender sky, the rich green of the magnolias, the wind- 
beaten and rain-stained old mansion all wrapped in 
semi-tropical vines, the flare of the sunlight and the 
soft glooms of the shade, and, beyond the house and 
the trees, the sheeny reeds and the broad, winding 
river, all these with the fresh perfumes and delicious 
spring wind, touched him and 

“ Passed like a glorious roll of drums 
Through the triumph of his dream.” 

He saw, he felt, he enjoyed — what more could his lazy, 
basking nature crave? 


238 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


The parting was commonplace enough, a mere clasp- 
ing of hands, strong, hopeful smiles and good-by. It 
could not be less, it might outwardly have been more, 
if the driver had not been there. 

“You will come soon.” 

“ Very soon — in a few days.” 

The carriage, a sort of open landau, began to move, 
and Reynolds sitting in the rear turned and furtively 
flung back a kiss. 

She was already beginning to grow pale, but she 
touched her lips with her fingers and waved him adieu 
with a bright smile. 

He kept his eyes upon her, as the distance gradually 
grew, and, so absorbed was he, it startled him when 
the vehicle suddenly came to a stand-still. 

“ Wha’ do Gin’l DeKay lib ? ” called out the driver 
of a carriage whose way lay opposite to theirs. 

“ Jis back ya’ leetle ways,” answered Reynolds* 
driver. 

“All right, I fought so; much ’bleeged.” 

Both carriages moved again. In passing Reynolds 
saw a slender, picturesque looking man, whose yellow- 
ish hair fell in profuse curls about his neck and shoul- 
ders. He wore a broad-brimmed, light colored hat 
and a close-fitting semi-military suit of gray. 

It was a most irritating thing that this man and his 
vehicle should whisk into the line of Reynolds’ vision 
and entirely hide Agnes from him. He craned his 


REALITIES. 


239 


neck and tried to look over or past that wide slouch 
hat and those slender, curl-covered shoulders, but it 
was impossible. 

“ Damn the fellow ! ” he muttered, “ Stop a 
moment, Dan,” he called to the driver. 

The mares were drawn up and the carriage came to 
a stand-still in a moment. Reynolds waited impa- 
tiently, hoping that some slight swerve in the road 
would give him one more glimpse of the blue dress 
and shining face. He felt that he could not thus 
abruptly and unauspiciously lose sight of her. But 
the road was straight and the vehicle kept well in the 
middle of it until it neared the gate of DeKay Place, 
where it turned and stopped. 

Mrs. Ransom was there, with her face toward him. 
He snatched out his handkerchief and waved it rapidly 
to and fro, but before he could get any response from 
her, the young man had got out of his carriage and 
placed himself in front of her, so that she was com- 
pletely eclipsed. 

Reynolds uttered some phrase expressive of bitter 
disappointment. His driver turned a surreptitious look 
of wonder and inquiry upon him, but dared not speak 
when he saw that Reynolds was looking at what was 
going on at the gate. Naturally enough the negro 
shrewdly suspected that here was a little play of rivalry 
between two gentlemen, and that he had better not 
interfere. 


240 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


As Reynolds leaned over the back of the seat and 
looked, there was a sudden movement made by the 
stranger that for a moment left Agnes in plain view, 
and he saw her throw up both hands and heard her 
cry out. Then the man clasped her and held her in 
his arms. Something in this scene startled Reynolds 
strangely, he hardly knew why, and he hurriedly com- 
manded the driver to drive back to the gate. 

“Quick, Dan, make the horses go; hurry, I say!” 
he added in a voice rough with excitement. There 
was a cold feeling in his breast, as if a damp, chilling 
breath had blown through it, and a heavy weight 
seemed pressing on his brain. 

In less than a minute the gate was reached and Rey- 
nolds had leaped to the ground. The man had let 
Mrs. Ransom go, and the two were standing facing 
each other. Both looked excited. She was very pale, 
but showed no sign of weakness, holding herself erect 
and steady. She turned her eyes upon Reynolds, as 
he came near, and made a movement with her lips, as 
if speaking, without emitting any sound. The man, 
who appeared to be an invalid, trembled a little and 
did not take his eyes off her face, even for an instant, 
but gazed at her with such yearning in his expression 
as would have touched the coldest observer. He had 
taken off his sombrero, holding it in his hand, and the 
light wind was tossing his long ringlets about his neck 
and cheeks. There was that peculiar droop to one of 


REALITIES. 


241 


his shoulders, together with a hollowness of his chest 
on that side, which indicated that at some time in his 
life he had been desperately wounded. 

“ Agnes, Agnes, what is the matter?” Reynolds 
exclaimed in that startled, rasping voice which is com- 
mon to all men when confronted by an overwhelming 
trouble. He asked this question involuntarily, aim- 
lessly, for he well understood what all this quiet, terri- 
ble scene was about. He knew this man now. It was 
hard to comprehend how such a thing could be ; but 
this was Ransom standing here, Ransom alive and con- 
fronting his wife. Agnes made two or three fruitless 
efforts before she was able to exclaim : 

“Oh, John — Mr. Reynolds, go away! Go away! 
This is — this is my husband ! ” She did not say this 
demonstratively or noisily — her voice was low and quite 
calm, save that she seemed to falter a little. “ Oh, I 
have always thought you were not dead and that you 
would come back ! ” she added, turning toward the 
man with something like a shudder in her tones. 

“ Ransom, is this indeed you ? ” demanded Reynolds, 
gathering enough force to crush down his bewilder- 
ment. 

The man turned his eyes upon his interrogator for a 
second. His stare had in it a mingling of surprise 
and insolent bravado. Then with a slight start he 
ejaculated : 

“ Reynolds ! ” 


242 AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 

Mrs. Ransom clasped her hands and looked helplessly 
and beseechingly from one to the other. Her lips 
quivered pitifully. 

The two men stared at each other as if unwilling to 
accept the situation and yet unable to escape it. 
Each seemed waiting for the other to explain why he 
was there. It did not once occur to Reynolds that this 
man had the legal right to Agnes, and that henceforth 
she must be as lost as if dead. He went no further 
than to recognize that here was a mystery and a 
trouble. The catastrophe had been so peculiar and 
sudden, so lacking in those melodramatic features com- 
mon to such scenes, that it had a dulling, numbing 
effect upon his faculties. Ransom was not so bewil- 
dered. It surprised him to see Reynolds and it dis- 
pleased him as well, but he had prepared himself, 
before coming, for any kind of a scene with his wife ; 
therefore, although excited, he was quite deliberate 
after the first little start of recognition had spent its 
force. 

“ I was not expecting to see you,” he said with pecu- 
liar emphasis. “Nor you me, I suppose.” 

The man’s whole manner was sinister and crafty, 
and yet, at the same time, there was something sub- 
dued, something suggestive of long suffering and 
unmerited injury, in the expression of his face and the 
attitude of his person. He appeared to Reynolds’ 
startled and distorted vision an incarnate accusation. 


REALITIES. 


243 


The situation might have had a touch of the super- 
natural in it, if its realism had not been so peculiarly 
pronounced and unmistakable. The whole affair was 
a cold, dull, immitigable affair. It did not even rise to 
the level of romance. It had come as death comes, a 
stark, overpowering, repulsive result of perfectly inex- 
plicable causes, bearing down before it every thought 
of resistance or escape. 

Reynolds had ready no response. The predicament 
was one which seemed to him malign in its whole bear, 
ing, with no room for words of inquiry or of explana- 
tion. A sense of suffocation assailed him, as if all those 
dreams and hopes and delightful anticipations that he 
had been so luxuriating in lately, had fallen dead in a 
wilted heap upon his heart. 

Ransom was a strangely handsome man, with a dash 
of devil-may-care blended with melancholy in his face. 
His features were clearly and finely cut, delicate but 
not effeminate, showing strong traces of suffering, with 
something of that cool nervousness (if one may so 
express it) in their play, so often noticed in the faces 
of gamblers and outlaws. He was rather above the 
medium stature, well-knit and graceful, erect (saving 
that slight peculiar droop of one shoulder), alert and 
well-poised. He turned from Reynolds to Agnes and 
with the utmost tenderness said : 

“ Come, little wife, I’ve a long story to tell you — a 
strange story. I have not been so bad as you think. I 


244 


AT LOVE'S EX TREMES. 


have been just the same as dead, four years in a Mexi- 
can prison/' 

It was not what he said but the way in which he said 
it, that made his appeal so very affecting. Reynolds 
felt a vague thrill of pity. At the same time there 
came upon him the first shock of genuine realization 
of the situation. The phrase “ little wife,” as used by 
Ransom, enforced its deep significance at once. It 
struck with a directness that gave no chance for 
evasion. 

“Oh, Herbert, Herbert!” cried Agnes, suddenly 
making a step forward and casting her arms around 
Ransom's neck. “ Oh, is it really, really you ! ” 

The lithe little figure in its rustling blue gown shrank 
close to him and quivered in his embrace. He bent his 
head and kissed her again and again, his long bright 
curls falling across her upturned face. 

Reynolds recoiled as if he had received a blow, then, 
steadying himself, he looked upon them as one might 
look into one’s own grave. Ransom’s voice, murmuring 
all manner of caressing phrases, was infinitely musical 
and sweet, but there was that in it which betrayed a 
weakness not wholly physical, a suggestion of irresponsi- 
bility and insincerity. 

It may have been the effect of long imprisonment, 
the nature of his wound and protracted mental worry, 
or it may have been altogether owing to the inter- 
pretation he had instantly given to the relationship 


REALITIES. 


245 


between Agnes and Reynolds ; but from whatever 
cause, his face was luminous with a pale glow express- 
ive of the most pathetic misery blended with exult- 
ation. 

Reynolds stood like a bronze statue, his eyes burn- 
ing with a dull fire and his face seamed and shriveled. 

Ransom clung to his wife, stroking her hair and 
kissing her cheek. His ecstasy was genuine, but it 
lacked the force of lofty passion. 

Presently Agnes freed herself from his embrace, quite 
as suddenly as she had sought it, as if some revulsion 
of feeling or some strong conviction of the impropriety 
of such extreme action had mastered her. She looked 
at Reynolds, and meeting his gloomy, despairing gaze, 
let fall her eyes, a quick blush covering her cheeks. In 
that moment all the force of her surroundings rushed 
furiously upon her. The blush gave place to a deadly 
paleness that appeared to affect her face as a white 
heat. She put up one hand quickly, as if to touch 
her forehead, but lowered it again, staggered and 
fell. Both men sprang to her assistance. Reynolds 
brushed the other aside, as he might have brushed 
aside some insect. Then lifting Agnes in his arms 
he bore her to the house. He did this in a mood 
that eliminated from his thought, for the time, all 
else save the woman he loved. He carried her with- 
out at all feeling her weight, and his movement 
was so swift that Ransom did not try to keep pace 


246 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


with him ; but followed him with slow, feeble steps into 
the hall and thence into the parlor. But it had not 
been a swoon, only a mere vanishing from her of 
strength sufficient to stand. She raised herself to a 
sitting posture, so soon as Reynolds put her on a sofa, 
and looked at him with an immediate understanding of 
what had happened. Ransom had not yet come in. 

“ Where is he — Herbert, my husband — where is he ? ” 
she asked. 

“ Oh, Agnes ! Agnes ! ” cried Reynolds, taking her 
again in his arms. “ It can not be so ! you can not, 
you will not, you shall not give me up for him ! ” 

She sprang away from him and stood up pale and 
firm before him. 

“ Do not touch me again,” she exclaimed, in a way 
that sent the blood in upon his heart. “You have no 
right. He is my husband. You said he was dead. 
You said — you — you deceived me — told me a falsehood 
— you — ” 

“For heaven’s sake, Agnes, hold — don’t say that ! I 
told you true. I thought he was dead — I thought I 
killed him — I did not dream of his being alive ! ” 

Ransom was standing by now glancing keenly from 
one to the other. When he spoke it was directly to 
Reynolds. 

“ If my wife wishes to talk longer with you, well and 
good, sir, but if not, you must see the propriety of 
leaving her to me.” His manner was suave, but there 


REALITIES. 


247 


was a mighty meaning in his voice and a steely glitter 
in his eyes. 

“ Leave her to you ! ” said Reynolds in a white heat 
of fury, “ never ! ” 

“You must leave me, and at once” said Agnes 
firmly. 

He looked into her eyes as if trying to read the 
lowest lines of their meaning, but he found nothing 
to aid him. The love-light had faded and in its stead 
the cold beam of loveless duty shone out clear and 
strong. He saw that she was as hopelessly gone from 
him as if she lay dead in her grave. He stretched out 
his arms toward her, but quickly withdrew them, not, 
however, on account of a swift, facile movement of 
Ransom’s hand to the place where a pistol is usually 
concealed by a man who carries one, for he did not 
see it, but because her eyes repelled him. There was 
nothing for him to do but to go away forever. He 
rushed from the room and from the house. Half way 
to the gate he stopped and turned about, fixing upon 
the weather-stained old building a gaze that it would 
have been awful to contemplate, so intense, so wild, 
so malignant. His hands were clenched, his lips, so 
compressed that they seemed welded, were cold and 
purple. For a mere point of time he was a murderer ; 
but, despite the intervening wall of the house, he could 
see Agnes clinging to her husband and the mood was 
flung aside. Her husband ! What right had he to 


248 AT LOVE 'S EXTREMES. 

survive that well-aimed shot ? What right had he to 
escape from a Mexican prison and drag his wrecked 
body and withered soul back here to crush out such a 
love as that which but an hour ago had lighted up the 
whole world ? 

It was but a flash of desperate passion, that came 
and went in an instant, leaving Reynolds all the more 
helplessly bewildered. What could he do ? He stood 
there rigid, breathless, choking in the impotence of 
utter irresolution. 

Again he turned towards the carriage. Far and near 
in the tender foliage of the trees the mocking birds 
sang with lusty fervor. The sweet South breathed upon 
him the warm, odorous breath of love’s own clime. 

Dan the driver, from his seat on the carriage, had 
watched this melodramatic scene from first to last, so 
far at least as it was not shut out from his vision, with 
all the open-mouthed wonder characteristic of a negro 
under such circumstances. He well knew that the 
predicament was one of no ordinary sort, and that 
weighty interests were involved. He had expected 
every moment to see knives or pistols gleam and flash, 
but he had been so dazed and scared that he could not 
have moved to save his life. He sat there gripping 
the lines and leaning forward in an attitude of painful 
rigidity, his shoulders elevated and his chin thrust out, 
lost to every thing but the excitement that had taken 
possession of him, 


REALITIES . 


249 


Uncle Mono, in blissful ignorance of the drama, was 
down in the little plat of ground devoted to his melon 
vines, stirring the sandy loam with a hoe and singing 
a lively camp-meeting song. The two silver dollars 
given to him by Reynolds had made him very happy 
indeed. 

Reynolds took no note of any thing around him. 
The sunshine, the bird-songs, the voice of the merry 
old freedman and the dying rustle of the now almost 
motionless air did not reach his senses. Again and 
again he stopped as if to rush back, his arms twitch- 
ing, his face rigid, but all the time he was half aware 
that fate was binding him more firmly each moment. 
Already the sweet life of the past month had receded 
into the far, hazy distance, as if its sphere had whirled 
away to the remotest region of space, almost beyond 
the reach of his vision, and with it all the best of his 
nature, leaving him groveling and baffled, a clod on a 
barren field. 

“ Drive me to Montgomery as fast as you can go, 
Dan,” he said to the driver as he reached the gate and 
entered the landau. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


WHITHER ? 

** TARIVE fast, Dan, I am in a great hurry,” 

JL/ said Reynolds, as the mares again moved 
gently along the road in the direction of Mont- 
gomery. 

The negro waved -his whip above the backs of the 
spirited animals, starting them into a rapid trot. The 
wheels made little noise on the light sandy surface over 
which they whirled. Reynolds sat bolt upright, look- 
ing neither to the right nor to the left, his vision intro- 
verted. He was calm as marble, so far as outward 
appearance went, and inwardly there was no commo- 
tion, but a cold, dull, smothering sense of defeat and 
despair. 

The woods on either side of the road were dull and 
soundless, save that, where the tall clumps of pines 
shot above the rest of the trees, their tops let fall a 
mellow roar which the slightest breeze has power to 
awaken in their frondous meshes. 

The negro presently began to sing, in a strangely 
melodious undertone, an old, old Alabama ditty : 


WIIITHER ? 


25 


“ Oh, poor Lucy Neal, 

Oh, poor Lucy Neal, 

And if I had you by my side, 

How happy I would feel ! ” 

Reynolds started, clenched his hands and began to 
breathe hard. 

“ Dan,” he cried, “ drive back, drive back, I can’t 
bear it ! ” 

Dan pulled up the mares and turned round in his 
seat : 

“What yo’ say, boss?” he inquired, touching his 
hat and but half repressing his surprise. 

“Turn round and drive back. Be quick, make them 
go : do you hear ?” 

“Yah, sah,” answered Dan. A flush had sprung into 
Reynolds’ cheeks in response to his sudden resolve. 
How could he ever have thought of abandoning her in 
this cowardly way? She is mine, he thought, she loves 
me, he has no right to her now: I will go back and claim 
my own with a force that shall be irresistible. 

“ Drive faster, Dan, do you hear, drive faster ! ” 

“Yah, sah, boss.” 

The mares put themselves forth to their utmost, gladly 
reaching back toward home. For a minute or two 
Reynolds was wholly in the power of this new mood. 
But it passed as suddenly as it had come, and 
again, with redoubled weight, the load of despair 
returned. 


252 


AT LOVE'S EXTREMES . 


“ Hold up, Dan, hold up ! ” 

“Yah, sah.” Dan once more brought the equipage to 
a standstill. 

Flickering expressions of hesitancy, faltering and 
giving up of hope, played for a brief space of time on 
Reynolds’ face, before he could say : 

“ Turn again : drive to Montgomery.” 

“ By jiffs ! ” muttered Dan, sotto voce , “ is de boss done 
gone ’stracted ?” 

He obeyed the order, however, not caring to risk the 
consequences of any open symptoms of disapproval. 
He was well aware that a storm was* pent up in 
Reynolds’ bosom, and he dreaded lest the slightest slip 
should turn its blasts and buffets loose upon him. 

“ Faster, can’t you, Dan ? ” urged the heavy rasping 
voice behind him, and the half-frightened negro 
touched the spirited team with the whip. Away they 
flew, at what horsemen call a three-minute pace, flash- 
ing through the spaces of sunshine and sweeping over 
the long stretches of shade, until the open country was 
again reached, where, between straggling worm fences, 
the road cut across vast fertile plantations. 

At length in the distance, crowning a swell of billowy, 
irregular land, Montgomery appeared, with its clay-red 
streets slanting up between long lines of gnarled trees 
and its house-roofs and church-spires strugglingthrough 
the greenery of vines and orchards, and the gloom of 
old dusky groves. On the highest point the grayish 


WHITHER ? 


253 


white, rectangular capitol, with its heavy columns and 
diminutive windows, gleamed bare and almost barn-like, 
in contrast with the embowered and picturesque resi- 
dences surrounding it. 

Just before they entered a street of the city, they 
met Beresford and another gentleman going toward 
the country in an open road wagon. They had their 
guns and dogs. Beresford bowed and lifted his hat. 
Reynolds returned the salute, rather from force of 
habit than from any real notice given to the courtesy, 
but the incident took his thoughts back past the drear 
defeat of to-day, to the sweet victory of that short 
period now glimmering as if on the uttermost horizon 
of memory. 

“ Drive directly to the railroad depot, Dan,” he said, 
and all the way through the city he sat calmly erect, 
like some thoughtful professional man going to his 
office. 

It was some time past noon when they reached the 
station and there was no train until after nightfall. 

Reynolds gave Dan a liberal reward in money. 

“ Good-by, Dan,” he said, “don’t drive the mares so 
fast going back : they appear tired.” 

“ Pow’ful hard on ’em, boss, a rushin’ ’em disway an’ 
dat way an’ a makin’ ’em go der bes’ licks all de way, 
up hill an’ down. By jiffs, but I’s erfeared dey’d drap 
afo’ dey got yer, boss ! ” 

Reynolds turned away and began walking back and 


254 


AT LO VE'S EXTREMES. 


forth on the station platform. A beautiful reach of 
the Alabama river lay in full view, under high bluffs of 
chocolate-colored clay, and the breeze came over the 
water sweet and cool. 

Dan mounted to his seat and prepared to drive up 
into the city, where he intended to get something to 
eat for himself and horses. 

“ Hold a moment,” called Reynolds, taking a pencil 
and a small memorandum-book from his pocket, “ wait 
till I write a few words.” He began rapidly writing, 
then stopped and tore up the leaf, looked aimlessly 
about for a time and turned abruptly off, saying in a 
strangely dry voice : 

“ Never mind : good-by, Dan.” 

The carriage rolled away, the sound of its wheels on 
the street coming back to his ears in gradually dimin- 
ishing clacks, reminding him that the last fragile link 
that had connected him with the old plantation was 
broken. He walked across the railroad tracks and sat 
down on a breezy point of the bluff overhanging the 
river. There was something in the river, there was 
something in the wind, the water, the sky and the wide 
horizon that cooled the fever in his blood for the time 
and set his brain to work with less confusion. His long 
years of hermit life had developed in him the habit of 
self-communion to such an extent that it required soli- 
tude to reduce his distracted faculties to something near 
their normal relations. We who view from the mere 


IVHITHER ? 255 

artist’s standpoint the operations of those influences 
that control the destinies of men, sometimes see a 
hideous stroke of humor in the doings of fate. Tragedy 
and comedy lie so close to each other, that a mere 
change of intonation in the reading of a line may deter- 
mine the difference between them. So, in reality, what 
under one light is incomparably tragic may, under 
another, appear trivial and almost comic. Beresford’s 
failure with Agnes Ransom, though just as final and 
conclusive, seems a small thing beside the overwhelm- 
ing disaster that fell upon Reynolds in the same field, 
and yet one might say : failure can go no further than 
failure : Beresford lost all, — how could Reynolds lose 
more? Is it really a more hopeless and tragic thing 
to love and be loved and lose than to love and not be 
loved and lose? Was it the difference between the 
men, or the circumstances, that enabled Beresford to 
take pleasure in a friend, his dogs and his gun, whilst 
Reynolds sat dreary-hearted, wretched, unconsolable, 
with folded hands and bowed head, alone by the river ? 
This set of questions may not be solved by any artistic 
analysis. The solution is in the bold impression of 
the facts caught at a glance by every one who has any 
considerable reach of human sympathy. 

When at last Reynolds grew calm enough to exam- 
ine the situation somewhat in the light of cold reason, 
he saw that Agnes, not himself, must bear the heaviest 
load of any one connected therewith. He knew that 


256 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


she loved him and that, loving him, she would devote 
the rest of her life to one whom she could not love, 
but to whom the laws of man and of duty, and every 
dictate of a pure conscience, bound her. Viewing it 
thus, his life seemed to end in a cul-de-sac. It had 
been a barren life, for the most part, so far, even worse 
than barren ; it had been evil in no small degree. 
Conscience leaped upon him and shook him as a wild 
beast shakes and worries its prey. He felt its fangs 
and welcomed the agony they inflicted, as a relief from 
the terrible numbness that had taken possession of him 
and beside which any pain was pleasure. 

It was almost dark when he went back to the station 
and entered the little waiting-room, where Dan had 
deposited his traveling-bag, and sat down on a bench 
to wait for the train. Several persons were there, 
impatient to be going, as travelers by rail usually are, 
but Reynolds was not in sympathy with their mood. 
He felt no concern about the train, whether ten min- 
utes or ten hours late. Why should he not be just as 
content while waiting for a train as while doing any 
thing else? What more interest was it to him to be 
going than it was to be staying? The thought of the 
cabin and its household, of White’s oddities and 
humorous absurdities, and of Milly’s faithful patience 
and plebeian sweetness and sincerity, did not draw him : 
in fact it repelled him. Why go back there at all ? 
Why not go to England and join Moreton, or to Egypt 


WHITHER? 


257 


and engage with Doctor Blank (another friend of his) 
in his scientific explorations? Then again came con- 
science, with waving mane and flaming eyes, roaring 
and baring its fangs. He could see no promise of escape 
from the torment. But why should he struggle ? He 
got up and walked to and fro, as did the other restless 
waiters for the train. Strange what tricks the brain 
plays under every sort of strain and torture. The 
turmoil of his thoughts, like some tempest-tumbled sea, 
kept tossing lightly on its surface as the sea might have 
tossed a cork, those simple rhymes about 

“ The light of her eyes 
And the dew of her lips, 

Where the moth never flies 
And the bee never sips.” 

He could not help it, any more than he could calm the 
awful underswell of despair. He was far from feeling 
any presence of good in all this agony. No sense of 
a coming purification, as a result of the heat to which 
his soul was subjected. That his nature was giving 
way before the intense blast of the furnace, he may 
have known, but he had no thought of any separation 
of the little gold of good from the mass of evil. How 
could he ever again think of tryingto do good? What 
a life of heavenly happiness he had just missed ! He 
clung desperately to the sensuous picture his memory 
kept before him, reveling in the torture it generated. 


258 AT LOVE'S EXTREMES. 

No thought of the future entered his mind, unless 
the form of poor little Milly, which now and again 
appeared to him, might be called a thought. From 
the outlines of her supple figure and haunting face he 
shrank with an inward shudder. Then suddenly, by 
some obscure cerebral operation, a glimpse, momentary 
but thrillingly sharp and clear, disclosed to him that 
other extreme of his situation. What a vast arc 
between the two confines of oscillation ! Agnes Ran- 
som, Milly White ! Now, at last, he felt himself 
shriveling and wasting, in the fire, as the blast from the 
tuyeres of God’s furnace was doubled and trebled. 
He began to imagine how it all was to end, while some 
strange, thrilling whisper suggested the outlines of 
duty. Duty ! what did he care for duty ! Why 
should he, whose sweetest hopes had been dissipated 
by this breath of providence, have any care for the 
happiness of others ? But his rebellion was weak. He 
arose, as the cars came crashing up to the station, and 
prepared himself for he knew not what. Almost any 
thing would be welcome. There seemed to be no 
place for him save the barren, dreary cabin in the 
mountains. As he realized this, once more his old 
arrogant nature flared up. “ I will not go there,” he 
thought, and his cheeks flushed. “ I will not be the 
dupe of circumstance. I will go to the ends of the 
earth first.” Nevertheless, he went aboard the train 
and took his seat in a car which was well filled with 


WHITHER ? 


259 


happy tourists returning to their Northern homes. 
The first person upon whom his eyes chanced to fall 
was Miss Crabb. She was busy with her note-book 
and pencil, her chin drawn down and her brow con 
tracted with intense thought. He shrank from her, as 
from something unbearable, and forthwith slipped 
away into another car. 


CHAPTER XX. 


AFTER ALL. 

W HITE’S cabin was better than the average Sand- 
Mountain house, but its surroundings were not 
so inviting as those where considerable farms, with 
orchards and garden plats, gave an air of frugal thrift, 
almost of comfort to the scene, at some points in the 
lower valleys. It was built of pine logs, split into 
halves, the flat side turned in, and the apertures 
between covered with long clap-boards of pine, rove 
with the grain, and smoothed with a drawing-knife. 
The chimneys, which were spacious, consisted of pens 
of split sticks, built from the ground to a little above 
the roof, and heavily daubed with red clay. An arid 
little clearing whose stumpy, rain-washed fields lay as 
if on edge, leaning against the mountain-side, showed 
that a light crop of tobacco or a doubtful yield of 
maize “ nubbins ” would be the best return that labor 
might hope for from the soilless clay and the dry, 
lifeless monotony of the mountain summers. This 
clearing was all on one side of the cabin, reaching down 
toward the little valley, whilst on the other three sides 
the forest was unbroken, saving that, further up the 


AFTER ALL. 


261 


mountain, wind and fire had done their work for ages. 
The fences about the place were old and neglected, 
grown over by vines and shrubs of various kinds, and 
the little gate in front, made of wattled boards, hung 
askew on rude hinges of hickory withes. Just outside 
of this gate, between it and the road, was a small space 
which for many years, ever since the cabin was built, 
in fact, had been used for piling up, cutting and split- 
ting the wood and pine knots used by the household, 
and upon which a moldy mass of chips, bark and 
woody fragments had slowly accumulated. All the 
native trees near the cabin had long ago been felled, and 
a few gnarled peach trees now grew in their stead. 
Standing on the rotten door-sill and looking out across 
the lower valley, one could have a fine view, over ill- 
shaped farm-plats and variegated woods, of the broken 
masses of mountains, near and far, with their beetling 
cliffs, their clustered foot-hills and their bare stony 
peaks, all over-canopied with a serene blue sky. But 
the scene was not one to inspire the beholder with any 
broad ideas of nature or of human life. It was a dry, 
cramped, desolate landscape, even in the first fresh 
colors of spring, when the tassels were on the trees and 
the wild flowers fairly carpeted the ground, for it lacked 
fertility, suggestion, promise. 

Here Milly White had been born and here she had 
lived to grow from babyhood to womanhood, a wild 
growth, like that of the native trees, plants and birds. 


262 


AT LOVE *S EXTREMES. 


Physically she was beautiful to look upon, if in looking 
one could separate the physical from the other form of 
human beauty ; but she was strictly a product of Sand 
Mountain, the last refinement of its productive forces, 
no doubt, approaching as near the perfect as nature, 
working within such limitations and under such hope- 
less restrictions, could get. It would be impossible to 
give in words any fair idea of her beauty or of her 
ignorance; to attempt either would appear like 
exaggeration. The painter would succeed no better, 
for his representation could reach no further than 
pathetic caricature. Her life, her condition and her 
surroundings composed an instance not far out of the 
common in Sand Mountain existence. Her beauty, it 
is true, was exceptional, as beauty is in all cases, her 
ignorance was somewhat denser than the average, and 
her experience on Reynolds’ account, had compassed 
its utmost possibility of disturbing force. In so far as 
her vision could go, she peered into the paradise 
coveted by all girls, and dreamed the dreams of unself- 
ish love. Every evening she went down to the little 
gate and leaned upon it, watching long and patiently 
for the coming of a man, as other women do, and 
every morning she renewed the vigil for a time, and 
the evening and the morning were a day. She had but 
a vague understanding of things too vaguely under- 
stood by all girls, and she made of Reynolds no more 
a god than most young women do of the men they 


AFTER ALL. 


263 


love. She could not realize her danger and she felt 
but indefinitely how much she was risking. As days 
and weeks dragged by and John did not come, she 
showed signs of nervous restlessness ; but she said 
little. Her health, instead of failing, as might have 
been expected, seemed to improve. Her face filled 
out to full womanly proportions, her cheeks gathering 
rich tints of rose and carmine, her eyes softening and 
dilating as if with the wonder of some sweet, strange 
discovery. She hovered, as a butterfly about a flower, 
over the things in Reynolds’ room. For hours she would 
sit before the sketch on the easel and gaze dreamily, 
half forlornly at it. She arranged and re-arranged the 
books, the chairs, the little worn foot-stool, the slippers, 
the dressing-gown, creeping about as noiselessly as if 
she feared the least sound might break her reverie. 
She was lonely, despondent and nervous at times, but 
she did not complain. White exhausted over and over 
again his stock of ingenuity in inventing excuses for 
“thet ther Colonel,” who, he insisted, was “a hevin’ of 
sech a roarin’ ole time, a shootin’ of birds an’ a 
drinkin’ of liquor an’ a playin’ of them ther new- 
fangled games of keerds.” White himself had grown 
strangely uneasy in his manner and his eyes had lost 
somewhat of their humorous light. It was beginning 
to confirm itself in his mind that his idol had clay feet. 
He gave up his confidence in Reynolds inch by inch, 
so to speak, clinging to it with the dogged stubborn- 
ness of his narrow nature. 


264 


A T LOVE'S EXTREMES. 


Spring fell upon the mountains some weeks earlier 
than usual. The old peach-trees were loaded with pale 
pink bloom and along the ragged ravines a tender 
green ran in waving veins. Day after day was cloud- 
less and warm, followed by nights of such starry splen- 
dor as are seen nowhere save in the Southern mountain 
regions. 

One evening Milly was at the gate, as usual, leaning 
over its uneven slats, gazing down the stony road. 
Her father came out of the cabin, bare-headed, pipe in 
mouth, with his hands thrust into his trowsers pockets. 

“ Think he air a cornin’ to-night, do ye, Milly ? ” he 
asked, standing near her and looking aimlessly about. 
“ I shedn’t be s’prised ef he’d drop along one of these 
yer days purty soon. Hit air a gittin’ most time for 
the bird-shootin’ ter stop, anyhow.” 

“ I dremp las’ night ’at he wer’ dead, an’ ’at’s a sign, 
ye know, ” she answered, without looking up. “ I jes’ 
know ’at he air a cornin’ purty soon.” 

“ Ef ye do see ’im a cornin’ down the road ther’, 
Milly, an’ ye’ve a min’ ter jump over thet gate ther’, 
w’y I shed ’vise ye ter git back yer a leetle an’ take a 
runnin’ start so’s to be shore not to trip er nothin’.” 
White chuckled dryly at the end of his speech, as if 
enjoying the scene it suggested ; but receiving no reply 
from the girl his face resumed its look of stolid repose, 
albeit his eyes wandered restlessly without seeming 
to see any thing. 


AFTER ALL . 


265 


The sun was down, an hour ago, and the stillness of 
night had fallen on the wide, rugged landscape. There 
was scarcely wind enough to bear away the light jets 
of tobacco smoke puffed sharply now and then from 
the man’s mouth. 

“ I dremp las’ night, too, ’at the Colonel he wer’ 
dead, Milly,” he presently said ; but he did not add 
that he dreamed that the Colonel had been killed, and 
by his hand. 

“ I’m jest a lookin’ for ’im now, an’ a ’spectin’ ’im 
ever’ minute,” she replied, her voice quavering sweetly, 
her limbs trembling. 

White swallowed, as if something hurt his throat, 
and pressed a finger vigorously into his pipe. The 
muscles of his face twitched convulsively. 

“ Oh, I consider ’at we’d better go inter the house, 
Milly,” he urged, “ for hit air not ’tall s’posible ’at the 
Colonel he ’ll come to-night ; but he air cornin’ shore 
ter-morrer, that’s es sarting es gun’s iron, Milly.” 

“ Lis’n, pap, I yer somethin’ like he wer’ a walkin’ 
up the road this yer way : lis’n ! ” She shook her hand 
at him in token of silence, but did not turn her head, 
leaning far over the gate. 

“ Hit ain’t him, Milly, he’d be er singin’ er song, ef 
hit wer’ him. Don’t ye ’member how he used ter 
warble them cur’us chunes when he wer’ a cornin’ ? ” 

“ Keep still, I tell ye, pap, for I know ’at I jest do 
yer ’im a cornin’ down ther’.” 


266 


AT LOVE' S EXTREMES. 


“ Mebbe ye do, s’pec ye do,” said White with a shake 
of his head, “ but hit air ter-morrer ’at ye yer ’im a 
cornin’. He air dead shore to roll in ter-morrer. Don’t 
ye fret, he air a cornin’ ’fore long, Milly.” 

“He air a cornin’ right now: oh!” she cried, and 
flinging open the gate, she slipped through like a bird 
and ran down the road. 

“I knowed ’at ye’d come, John, oh, John! John! ” 
White heard her say, her voice cutting with shrill 
sweetness through the still evening air. 

He went through the gateway, and, stumbling over 
the wood-pile, walked rapidly after her. Sure enough, 
there was Reynolds in the middle of the road, with 
Milly clinging to him. They were in a place where the 
strong star-light dimly outlined them. White stopped 
short and actually reeled like a drunken man. He 
went no nearer to them, but turned and staggered 
rather than walked back into the cabin. 

“ Hit air all right, mother,” he said to his wife as he 
entered. “ He air out ther’ — the Colonel air.” 

She looked up with a start, for his voice was thick 
with excitement. 

“ She — she — Milly ’ll be all right now. She won’t go 
erstracted now, mother,” he added, dropping into a 
chair and beginning to refill his pipe. 


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